


Flightless Bird

by DonnaHaywardsHead



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Ballet Dancer Harry, Ballet Dancer Louis, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Drugs, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Famous Harry, First Love, Fluff, Harry is not as evil as he seems!, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Harry, Larry Stylinson - Free Form, Liam has a cane, London, Loss of Virginity, Love/Hate, M/M, Minor Violence, Niall wears glasses, Possibly Unrequited Love, Real Men Wear Tights, Rimming, Sad Harry, Sassy Louis, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Shower Sex, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sex, Slow Burn, Swan Lake - Freeform, The Royal Ballet, The Royal Ballet School, Time Skips, Top Harry, Top Louis, True Love, Versatile Harry, Virginity, alternates between past and present, nothing is what it appears to be, versatile louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 97,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnaHaywardsHead/pseuds/DonnaHaywardsHead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Louis Tomlinson is a principal dancer with The Royal Ballet. When his rival from ballet school, moody dance prodigy Harry Styles joins the company, old wounds are reopened and old passions reignited. During the company's production of Swan Lake the secret that doomed their love is finally revealed, but will it be too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

LOUIS / PRESENT

I ran through the atrium adjacent to the Royal Opera House, stars through the glass ceiling lighting my path. The building that housed both the Royal Opera and the Royal Ballet was silent and still. One would think the place was deserted but I knew better.

The ballet company’s offices were in the basement and stood in stark contrast to the red velvet, gold, and mahogany fixtures of the auditorium above. Downstairs, rows of identical rooms were encased in concrete like catacombs. The linoleum floors were freshly waxed and I could see my distorted reflection in them as I ran.

The offices were dark and empty, all but one. Down at the end of the corridor I could hear the faint typing of the ballet’s assistant director, Liam Payne. He sat hovered over his computer in a corduroy jacket with suede patches on the elbows, his dark eyes pensive.

“Hello, Louis,” he said, without looking up.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I said holding up a letter. It wasn’t addressed to me. It was from Liam’s boss, the company’s director, Kenneth O’Hare, to Zayn Malik, my best friend.

I was a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet while Zayn was still just a soloist. When another principal dancer announced that he was retiring at the end of the season we were sure Zayn would take his place, but that afternoon he received a letter from the director saying that the position had been filled by an outside hire.

“Who could be more deserving of this position than Zayn!” I slammed the paper down on Liam’s cluttered desk and fell into the chair across from him. Zayn was too modest to come down here and stick up for himself so I had to do it. The company was performing Swan Lake in the fall. I had been tapped to play Prince Siegfried and Zayn was a natural choice for Von Rothbart. There was no one else.

Liam massaged his temples. “Zayn was a strong contender, but when Kenneth and I were in Moscow last month we had the opportunity to poach a dancer and we couldn’t pass it up.”

“I thought this company was committed to nurturing its talent and promoting from within. Since when do we steal Russian prima donnas from the Bolshoi?” I snapped.

“We didn’t steal him, technically. His contract was up. And he’s not Russian… He’s English.”

There was only one English dancer currently employed by the Bolshoi.

“Oh no.”

“Louis, he gave the performance of a lifetime.”

“I don’t care if he gave you a fucking Fabergé egg! Harry Styles is impossible to work with! We’ll kill each other!”

Surely Liam had heard the rumors: Choreographers quitting, ballerinas in tears, male dancers forced out and administrators fired. Harry’s reputation preceded him.

Liam sighed. He got up from his chair and walked around his desk to kneel beside me. He had a pronounced limp. Liam had been a dancer himself once. During his first year with the company he broke his ankle doing a triple tour en l’air and just like that his promising dance career was over. I was in the back of the auditorium when it happened and heard the snap, like the echo of a tree branch breaking. Seeing Liam every day was a constant reminder of how fragile our bodies and our careers were.

“I suppose he’s gunning to play Siegfried?” I said.

“No, actually, he’s keen to play Von Rothbart.”

“The villain. Why am I not surprised?”

“We saw his Von Rothbart in Moscow. It was genius.”

I leaned back in my seat and feigned confidence. “He isn’t better than me.”

“You two are very different dancers,” Liam assured me. “And perfectly matched. Your Siegfried next to his Von Rothbart will be transcendent.”

I wasn’t worried about our dancing. Onstage we didn’t have to speak. It was backstage, the rehearsals, the dinners, and the parties that I was worried about.

“I remember him being quite sweet when we were in school,” Liam mused. “You were his best friend at the academy, Louis. You must like him at least a little?”

I stuck my hands in my sweatshirt sullenly. “I never knew the real him. You have no idea what he’s capable of. He’s cutthroat.”

“All dancers are.” Liam smiled and nudged my elbow.

Not Harry, or at least not the Harry I thought I knew. It was hard for me to reconcile the angelic curly-haired boy I met in fifth year to the cipher he became in our sixth year at the academy. I should have gotten over it and moved past what he did to me but I couldn’t. To my young heart the betrayal was Shakespearean, magnified by our closeness. Liam was wrong. Having been Harry’s best friend in the past didn’t make it easier to get along with him, it made it harder. Impossible.

“Please tell me the decision isn’t final,” I begged. “Do I have time to talk to Kenneth?”

Liam’s tone of comradery shifted to one of authority. “It’s done. Harry’s already in London and he’ll be at the patron’s dinner tomorrow night.”

“Liam!”

“Play nice, Tomlinson.”


	2. Chapter 2

HARRY / PAST

I started at the Royal Ballet School late. Most students entered the school when they were eleven but I didn’t start until I was fifteen. As such, everyone knew everyone and I knew no one. 

I only danced for fun. My mum’s friend ran a small studio in the back of her bakery and I wandered in one day by accident looking for the loo. I joined in as joke at first but then found I quite liked all the leaping and twirling. 

When my teacher, Mrs. Prichard, suggested I audition for the Royal Ballet School I thought she’d gone mad. Mum said I owed it to myself to at least try and I thought, why not? I could do with a trip to London. I couldn’t believe I actually got in. My acceptance form included a long list of problems with my technique but they praised my turn-out, my high arched feet, my long hyper-extended legs and my stretchy Achilles tendons. They said I had a great sense of musicality, and that I was emotive. I didn’t know what that meant but I decided it was a good thing.

I should have been excited about being accepted into such a prestigious school--it looked like a palace--but I was mostly scared. I’d never lived away from home before and I had a hard enough time making friends in Cheshire. 

My roommate was a skinny redhead with a pinched nose who wanted nothing to do with me. He was supposed to be rooming with his best mate and my unexpected arrival threw a wrench in their plans. His stuff took up the whole closet so I had to tuck my clothes underneath the bed. 

Once I got settled in my room I dressed for my first dance class. I picked black tights and a white bodysuit because that’s what the boys in the school brochure wore. Back in Mrs. Prichard’s studio I could wear whatever I wanted--an oversized sweater, gym shorts--she didn’t mind. But at RBS there were a lot of rules. I had to look tidy, eat from a meal plan, and even go to sleep at a certain hour. 

I got to the studio early and already I felt like a twat. Nobody was dressed like they were in the brochure; some wore joggers and t-shirts, some even wore shorts. Only the eleven year-olds down the hall wore the black tights and white bodysuits. I wondered if I had time to change, but the teacher walked in the moment I tried to leave.

Her name was Madame Lesauvage. She was an imposing figure: tall, thin, with black hair and few spidery grey strands at her temples. She had been a ballerina over a decade ago but she looked like she could still perform with the best of them. I thought I might score some points by being so primly dressed but all she could see was my curly hair, “Too long,” and the cluster of friendship bracelets that adorned my wrists, “Cut them off.”

We were starting the class with barre work before moving onto the floor. The girls got all the best spots. I managed to push my way into the middle, behind a lanky boy with a thick Bradford accent and his friend, a serious boy with thoughtful brown eyes who I could tell from his poised demeanor was the best male dancer in the class.

Our slippered feet swished against the vinyl flooring as we changed from second position to fourth and then from fourth position to fifth. We were only minutes into the class when Madame began giving me corrections. “Harry, chin up!” “Harry, shoulders!” “Harry, arms!” You’d think I was the only person in the studio. I did everything she said but no matter how hard I tried my body wouldn’t cooperate. When I lifted my chin my shoulders slumped, when I raised my arms my chin fell.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. They were probably wondering what I was even doing there. I was wondering the same thing. I knew I would be behind the other students but not this far behind. I couldn’t get a single thing right.

When Madame came around to correct my posture for the hundredth time, my eyes stung with tears. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run to my room and never set foot in another dance class again.

But as I plotted my escape, a feather-haired boy in adidas sweats with a cigarette behind his ear burst through the studio door shouting effusive apologies in French. “Je suis vraiment désolé!” He threw down his backpack and made a little prayer gesture with his hands. “Je m'excuse très humblement, Madame!” 

“We’ll talk after class.”

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

On his way to take his place at the barre he stopped in front of me and grinned at my outfit. He stuck out his hand, “Tomlinson.”

I shook it. “Harry. I mean, Styles.”

“You’re in my spot, Styles.”

I looked over my shoulder to see if there was room at the back. Suddenly the boy lifted me up by the waist like I was his female partner in a pas de deux and carried me to a spot in the corner. The girls erupted into a fit of giggles. 

“That’s enough!” Madame clapped her hands to quiet the class. 

The boy winked at me and dashed back to his place at the center of the barre behind the lanky boy. I turned beet red. I could still feel the impression of his hands on my waist. 

Madame Lesauvage finally stopped correcting me. She was too busy disciplining the Tomlinson boy. “Louis, quiet!” “Focus, Louis!” “I’m not going to say it again, Louis!” 

After class the Tomlinson boy got a long lecture from Madame about being late and chatting during class. In the change room he horsed around with the lanky boy, whose name I learned was Zayn. They left together. 

I got dressed and sat in the change room alone for a while. It was my lunch period but I didn’t have anyone to sit with so my plan was to wait until the last possible second to get food and scarf it down right before the bell rang. 

When I stepped out of the studio, Tomlinson was leaning against the wall in the corridor. 

“Wait up!”

I glanced around. He couldn’t possibly be talking to me.

“Yes you, Styles.”

Slowly I approached him, clinging to my backpack like a parachute. The boy had a sneaky smile and shifty blue eyes beneath a thicket of dark blonde lashes. I couldn’t tell if he was being friendly or making fun of me.

“You’re new here,” he said.

I nodded. 

“Where are you staying?”

“Wolf House in Baron’s Court.”

He dismissed this fact with the click of his tongue. “That’s where the fifth years stay.”

“I’m in fifth year.”

“Come with me.”

We walked over to where he was staying in Jebsen House. It was where the older students lived. I didn’t understand how he got a room there when he was in the same year as me. I was impressed.

There was loud music pulsing through the walls and everything smelled like jockstraps and pot. Seventeen-year-old boys with the fittest bodies I’d ever seen in real life walked past us in the corridor, wet and glistening in nothing more than a towel. 

Louis eyed me with interest. “Like what you see, Styles?”

I looked down at the ground, mortified. 

“This is my room,” he said.

Louis’ room was similar to mine only bigger with a bay window and thick foliage outside that filtered the light giving the room a hazy green glow. 

The top bunk was his and taped to the wall were dozens of pictures of male dancers. He also had a programme and ticket stubs from The Royal Ballet’s recent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

“It’s my favorite ballet,” he said, hopping up on the bed. 

I climbed up next to him. “I thought it was a play.”

“It’s a ballet too. Balanchine choreographed it in 1962. What’s your favorite?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have one. I’ve never been to the ballet.”

Louis stared at me incredulous. “Harry! You attend the best ballet school in the world and you’ve never been to the ballet?”

I held his pillow against my chest, ashamed. 

“Do you have a favorite dancer at least?”

I shook my head.

Louis couldn’t believe it. He started pointing out who all the dancers were on his wall, telling me which ones he’d seen perform and which ones he wanted to see perform. 

I pointed to a black and white photo of male dancer doing a Cabriolé. “Who’s that?”

His mouth hung open. “It’s Nijinsky! Oh my God, how do you not know that?” 

“Maybe I’ll see him dance one day.”

“He’s been dead for sixty years.”

“Oh.”

“This one’s my favorite.” Louis pointed at another photo on his wall, a new one recently cut out of a magazine. “I’ve seen him dance six times.”

The man in the photo was unsmiling, arms crossed, in a dark suit with the Paris Opera Ballet fanned out behind him. 

“Alexander Beauchamp. He’s retired now, but he was amazing. He was in the first ballet I ever saw when I was five. Giselle.” 

He looked familiar. I remembered him from the school brochure. “Doesn’t he teach here?”

Louis grinned. “No, but he’s a guest choreographer. He’s choreographing our winter showcase. We’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream if you can believe it. I really want the part of Demetrius,” he sighed. “Hey, you could be Lysander!”

I stared at the photos of all the famous dancers and their flawless lines. “I doubt I’ll get a part at all. I can barely make it through a class with Madame Lesauvage.”

Louis draped an arm over my shoulder. “You just need a bit more practice. I’ll help you with your technique. If you got into this school that means you’re special. You’re good enough. No, you’re more than good. If you got into this school without any formal training, you’re a prodigy.”

I didn’t believe him but it did give me a boost of confidence. 

My lunch period was almost over and I needed to get to my next class and then back to my dorm. Louis and I compared schedules. We didn’t have another class together for the rest of the day. 

I threw on my backpack. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I headed out the door, Louis climbed off the bed and stopped me. “Wait!” He bit his lip. “You should move in with me.”

“But you have a roommate.”

“Zayn never sleeps here. He stays in his girlfriend Gigi’s room.”

“Is that allowed?”

Louis laughed. “Course not!”

Any student would kill for a room like Louis’. I didn’t understand why he’d want to share.

“Don’t you like having the place all to yourself?” 

“Yeah.” He fixed my fringe. “But I wouldn’t mind some company.”

It was impossible to concentrate during the rest of my classes. I couldn’t stop thinking about Louis. I was too excited about the prospect of moving in with him. I had no idea why he wanted to be my friend when he was already friends with Zayn and all the older boys but I was grateful. Maybe he just felt sorry for me since I didn’t know anybody and my technique was rubbish. Either way it was super nice of him. 

When I was done classes I went to my room and packed a bag, careful to leave a bunch of stuff behind. Louis told me not to bring all of my things over. I had to make it look like I still lived in my assigned room. My roommate was doing his homework and besides being slightly annoyed at the noise I was making he hardly batted an eye when I left.

As soon as the sun went down, I snuck out and ran across campus, heart pounding, to Jebsen House. 

I nodded shyly to the older boys and knocked on Louis’ door. It flew open. 

“Lysander!”

“Demetrius!”

Just like Louis promised, Zayn was staying with his girlfriend for the night. He’d already cleared a space for my things in the closet and I settled in. 

We were supposed to eat steamed vegetables and skinless chicken breast from the cafeteria for dinner but Louis bought us pizza instead, which we devoured hungrily while staying up way past lights-out playing video games. I’d only been at school one day and I’d already broken half the rules! 

Bellies full, and giddy at our newfound friendship, I asked Louis if he would help with my technique. We used the cool windowsill as a barre. Louis’ hands were firm and commanding, but unlike Madame Lesauvage he accidentally slipped them beneath my shirt from time to time. 

He held my shoulder and hip in place and I went into a grand plié in fifth position. As soon as I got the hang of it he let me go and I found myself making mistakes on purpose to bring his hands back. 

“Harry,” he chuckled, “you keep dropping your hip! Stop it!” He got behind me and gripped my waist with both hands, holding me against himself snugly as we moved up and down, up and down. 

When he was done with his lesson, Louis examined my body, inching his fingers up my spine one vertebrae at a time. “You have a dancer’s body,” he said finally. “Me, I have to work ten times harder on my technique because I have a long torso. But you are perfectly proportioned, Harold.”

I knew he was just appraising me as a dancer but I liked hearing him say nice things about my body. It made me feel good.

“You have perfect technique!” I said, wanting to give him a compliment too.

His eyes twinkled. “I know.”

When we got tired Louis turned to the beds. “Which bunk do you want?”

“I think I prefer to be on top.”

He smirked. “Well, alright then.” Louis stripped down to his underwear and rolled onto the bottom bunk. “Go for it.”

I climbed up the little wooden ladder and onto the top bunk. I got changed under the covers so he wouldn’t see me. Louis had such a nice tanned, toned body. Mine was pale and I sill had a bit of baby fat. I was also terrified I might get a boner in front of him. 

My hand hung over the side of the bed and Louis reached up and caught it.

“Goodnight, Lysander.”

“Goodnight, Demetrius.”


	3. Chapter 3

LOUIS / PRESENT

Dinner for the patrons would be held in the Crush Room, one of the grandest rooms in the Opera House. The crystal chandeliers and velvety reds and gold of the auditorium carried through in its rich furnishings. Oil paintings that had been in place since the 17th century adorned the walls, bolstering the room’s historical importance. I couldn’t help but walk a little taller, a little prouder, when I was in the Crush Room, reminded of my own place in the Royal Ballet’s esteemed history. 

Zayn rushed to my side, tie in-hand. “Sorry I’m late. Delay on the tube,” he said, panting.

“You’re fine.” I popped his shirt collar and took the tie from his hand. I draped it around his neck and did it up for him.

The dinner was for the male dancers in the company to schmooze with female patrons--sort of a Sadie Hawkins dance for the upper crust. But it made most of us feel like gigolos as we were plied with liquor and subject to the women’s brazen advances. 

It was black tie and we looked identical. The men in the company all got their suits tailored at Gieves & Hawkes, the oldest tailor in London. It was tradition. Some didn’t understand the need for uniformity when we weren’t performing but I did. It strengthened our camaraderie and made us feel like we were part of something bigger than ourselves. 

Niall Horan, the ballet’s music director strolled in, round black glasses matching his black suit. 

“Horan!” Zayn and I waved him over. 

“Looking dapper, boys,” he said brightly. 

Like most music directors, Niall was a conductor by profession. He had been a guest conductor with the Leipzig Ballet before he was offered the appointment of music director at the Royal Ballet in London. He and I became fast friends, which was surprising because most music directors were twats who thought that the music was more important than people dancing to it. Niall was different. His mum was a ballerina and he had been a ballet pianist since grade school, so he had a lot of respect for dancers. He was also a football fanatic and we had Man U season tickets. 

We looked over our shoulders as the wealthy women began to pour in through the grand oak doors. 

Niall grinned. “They look thirsty.”

“If we’re going down we’re taking you with us,” I said.

“They’re not here for me,” he laughed. “They’re after fit ballet boys.”

I ran a hand through Niall’s quiff. “They like these blonde locks as much as they like my thighs.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed, worriedly eyeing the women. “Take one for the team, Horan.”

Zayn was a favorite among the female patrons. His Mercutio in last season’s production of Romeo and Juliet drove them wild. It might have had something to do with the choreographer’s decision to have him perform his solo shirtless. 

“Doesn’t Gigi mind you being pimped out like this?” Niall asked Zayn.

“Are you kidding? She pushed me out the door and told me to shake my moneymaker.”

That sounded like Gigi.

I was nervous about being pawed all night, but not as nervous as I was about seeing Harry. Where was he anyway? I’d stayed up until three in the morning watching footage of his performances with the Bolshoi. I thought if I stared hard enough I’d find the fault lines in his technique and expose him in rehearsal. But if there were mistakes I was blind to them. Harry was such an emotional dancer it was hard to focus on anything but what he was feeling. As I watched his solo in Giselle I lost myself and started crying! Actual fucking tears! I slammed my laptop shut, furious with myself for being duped by Harry’s cheap trickery.

The lads and I decided to take the plunge and go greet the women. A frail eighty-year-old woman named Margaret took a shining to me. I decided to stick with her. She seemed relatively harmless. 

“Right this way Mags,” I said, leading her to the table. “Is it alright if I call you Mags?”

“Oh, yes.” She blushed, touching her blue-tinged hair, spun into a twist atop her head like cotton candy. “No one’s called me that since I was a girl!”

I smiled. 

Behind me Zayn was being mauled by two voluptuous socialites in their forties. 

“Help,” he mouthed. 

I shrugged and mouthed back, “Sorry.”

Mags had an interesting life as the heiress to a media fortune, and dry sense of humor. We got on famously. I didn’t have to pretend to laugh at her jokes. She was actually quite funny. And she hadn’t gotten fresh with me, which was always appreciated.

It wasn’t until dessert that Harry decided to grace us with his presence. The oak doors swung open and regally he entered, his green eyes downcast, his hands behind his back. The reaction to him was like none I’d ever seen for a dancer. Unprompted, the entire room got to their feet and broke into thunderous applause. Harry bowed and I shook my head with disapproval. Not only was he not in black tie, he wasn’t in a tie at all. Head-to-toe in Gucci, he wore a gold floral neck bow with a black shirt, his long hair down and curling at his shoulders. It was completely inappropriate! Insulting! He didn’t look like he was part of the company. He looked like a Machiavellian prince! 

“Oooooh,” Mags whispered. “There’s that new dancer from the Bolshoi. I hear he’s magnificent. Doesn’t he look handsome tonight! I’ve never seen a suit like that before.”

I took a swig of wine. “That’s because it’s not a suit. I don’t know what the hell it is!”

She grabbed my arm. “Can you introduce me?”

“Mags, you don’t want get mixed up with the likes of him, trust me, he’s trouble.”

I watched as Harry worked the room, politely greeting every single patron and member of the company. He and Zayn embraced for a whole minute. I timed it. He had a brief laugh with Liam before Kenneth introduced him to Niall. 

When he got to my table I faced forward and crossed my arms. He went around to each person until eventually he got to Mags and kissed her cheek. 

“Enchanté,” he said.

She put a hand over her heart, her silver eyelashes batting up at him.

I stood up and begrudgingly extended my hand. Harry looked at it and walked away. 

I was livid. 

He made a point of greeting every single person in that goddamn room just so he could snub me! Bastard! 

He sat at the table next to mine with Kenneth and Liam. Naturally he would want to spend all his time sucking up to the director. He probably thought the rest of us were beneath him. Including me. Especially me.

I just wanted to ignore him and enjoy my wine, maybe an espresso or two, but all anyone wanted to talk about at my table was Harry, Harry, Harry. I couldn’t help stealing glances at him to see if he was watching me but he wasn’t. He had one leg crossed over the other, his arm resting on the back of Kenneth’s chair, with an easy smile on his face. 

I’d had enough.

“Harry is just so sophisticated,” gushed the thin businesswoman sitting across from me. “He’s so cultured. I wonder if he was raised on the continent?”

I burst out laughing. “Harry? Cultured? He didn’t even know who Nijinsky was when I met him!” 

Harry’s ears perked. He didn’t look at me but I could tell he was seething. 

I went on. “Nope, he’s far from cultured, unless you consider learning ballet out of the back of a bakery in Cheshire cultured.”

The ladies murmured amongst themselves. They loved Harry but they loved gossip more.

I kept going. “He’d never even been to the ballet when he came to the academy. Fifteen years old and never been to the ballet! Can you imagine?”

A bespectacled woman about Mags’ age put her hand over her mouth and whispered. “Perhaps he comes from an impoverished background, like that Billy Elliot chap?” 

“No,” I assured them. “He’s not poor, just tragically pedestrian.” 

Harry threw down his napkin and got up from the table. I thought he might throttle me. I had it coming. Instead he walked across the room and kindly asked one of the patrons to dance. 

“Come on, Mags,” I said, grabbing the old woman’s hand.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re dancing.”

The first dance was a waltz. I tried to inch my way over to Harry to eavesdrop on his conversation. No doubt he’d be complaining about me to anyone who would listen.

Then the song switched to something faster. I’d definitely underestimated Mags because she had moves. 

“Loosen up, Tomlinson!” she shouted above the music. 

I could barely keep up with her and she had trouble keeping her hands above board, pinching my bum every chance she got. 

I finally had Harry’s attention. He was watching me and Mags now, grinning from ear to ear. 

Asking Mags to dance was a big mistake because once she got going she didn’t want to stop.

“Let’s sit this one out,” I suggested. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Nonsense! You’re a young man! You can go all night!” 

We danced another five songs, Niall and Zayn eventually joining the fray with their own lively partners. Zayn’s hair was ruffled, his tie loosened, and he had lipstick on his cheek and collar. We danced the foxtrot and the jitterbug with the occasional disco track mixed in for good measure. 

I noticed that Liam was standing by himself against the wall. His limp made him self-conscious, so he always avoided dancing. It broke my heart because before his injury he was one of the greatest dancers I had ever known. Zayn noticed him too. Apologetically, he left his partner and coaxed Liam out of the corner. He never would have gone with me but Zayn had the magic touch. Together they glided along the dance floor in short, careful strides, Zayn leaning slightly to compensate for Liam’s limp. 

As Mags and I whipped by them I hollered, “Hey, I’m next.”

“Sorry, mate my dance card is full!” Liam chirped clinging to Zayn tightly. 

I’d finally worn Mags out by the second last song of the night. I led her back to the table where she said her goodbyes. She was tired but still in better shape than I was. 

I glanced across the room. Harry was gone. He came late and left early. I was disappointed but I didn’t really know why. I had rehearsal with him in the morning and the less I had to deal with him the better. 

I dropped down into my seat. 

Zayn collapsed next to me like a ragdoll. “I’m knackered. Wanna split a taxi?”

“Nah, I think I’ll walk.”

Zayn tilted his head. “Let me walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Is this about Harry?”

“I’m fine, Zayn.”

“I’m not angry with him for taking a principal position with the company and you shouldn’t be either.”

“Well, I am!”

Zayn nodded, though we both knew that Harry’s position with the company wasn’t the real reason I was angry. 

I stayed behind and had another drink. One by one patrons and dancers left the Crush Room to venture out into the cool night air. I was the last to leave besides the waiters. Dragging my feet, I walked past the baroque oil paintings, their exaggerated dramas taunting me. I wondered how many dancers had walked past these exact same paintings in black Gieves & Hawkes suits over the years. Thousands. One day I would be forgotten and these paintings would remain: emotive and bold. Like Harry. Harry would be remembered. 

I walked outside onto the Opera House steps and shrugged on my heavy tweed coat. I pulled out a cigarette and let it dangle from my lips for a moment, surveying the night sky. 

As I fumbled for my lighter I felt gentle hand on my shoulder and a pair of familiar lips against my ear. 

“Goodnight, Demetrius.”


	4. Chapter 4

HARRY / PAST

 

The boys lined up against the barre on one side of the dance studio while the girls lined up on the other. We were practicing lifts. In my old studio back in Cheshire most of the girls were younger and smaller than me but at the Royal Ballet School they were my age and my height, if not taller.

I went to Top Shop over the weekend to get some loose fitting tank tops like the other boys wore. I was finally starting to feel like I fit in even though I was still woefully behind when it came to technique.

Louis was paired up with his friend Eleanor, a poised but cagey brunette with a golden tan from summers spent yachting in the South of France. They were bickering at each other from across the room.

“Don’t you fucking drop me, Tomlinson!” she said, flexing her point shoe.

“El, I wouldn’t drop you if you would just relax!”

“How can I relax when you keep dropping me?”

I was paired up with Gigi, the strongest female dancer at the academy. She was tall and muscular and scary as hell. She looked like a China doll when she was happy but a cobra when she was mad. She was mad a lot.

Louis nudged me. “Watch out for Gigi. The last time a guy dropped her she kicked him in the balls. We call her The Nutcracker.”

I blanched.

Liam went first. His female partner braced herself on his shoulders and he lifted her off the ground with complete ease, her legs scissoring the air and gently gliding back down.

Zayn caught his partner simply enough, spinning her high above his head with one arm like as though he were twirling a baton.

Eleanor swore under her breath as she ran at Louis. They were practicing a catch and lift. She had to jump into his arms and then, with the momentum of the jump, he had to toss her up in the air and hold her by the waist above his head. He managed it, though her nerves got the best of her and he had to put her down before they could complete a full rotation.

Gigi’s icy blue eyes bore into mine as she came toward me. We were doing a simple arabesque lift. The easiest lift. I had my right hand just above her hip and the left under her extended leg, holding it the way a waiter presents a tray. I bent my knees and lifted. I got about halfway up before my arms began to shake.

Louis bit his lip.

Zayn covered his eyes.

I couldn’t do it. My elbows buckled and I landed her ungracefully on the ground.

“Again,” she said.

Once more, I placed one hand firmly under her leg and the other on her hip. I lifted and—I dropped her. Oh shit.

She got up and circled around me. “Again!”

I tried, but it was physically impossible. “I can’t!” I gasped, setting her down gently.

“Again.”

I lifted her a bit higher this time, but my form was sloppy and she slipped out of my grip.

“Again.”

We must have done it fifty times, and kept going long after the others had finished practicing. My arms were getting weaker not stronger.

After putting her down for the last time Gigi turned to the other boys and spat, “Fix him.” She whipped her head around, slapping my face with her ponytail.

My shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Come on,” said Louis as we packed our bags. “Let’s hit the gym.”

I really didn’t feel like working out. I felt like eating chocolate and taking a long nap.

As we walked to the gym in the basement of the school, Louis explained: “The most important lesson you need to learn is that the girls run shit around here. There are a lot more of them than there are of us. If you cross one, they’ll all fuck you over. If you want Gigi to respect you—and you should ‘cause if she doesn’t, the other girls won’t—you have to do some strength training.”

Not only did I have poor technique but I was weak too. Great. Just add it to the list of everything that’s wrong with me.

Louis could tell that I was feeling down and tried to cheer me up by telling me about all the times he dropped Eleanor. But it wasn’t a fair comparison. He was working on the most complicated lift and I couldn’t even do a simple arabesque lift. I was the worst student in class, maybe the worst student in the school’s history.

I forced a smile.

We rounded the corner to the gym and I saw a glass trophy case with a framed photo of that famous dancer Alexander Beauchamp inside. He looked so young. He must have been a student here back in the day. He was someone who belonged here. He was a real dancer, not me.

Glumly, I pressed up against the glass and pointed it out to Louis. “Look, Lou, it’s your favorite dancer.”

He spun me around and squeezed my shoulders. “Harry, you’re my favorite dancer.”

I rolled my eyes and brushed off the compliment but secretly I loved him for saying that.

The gym was empty. At least I wouldn’t embarrass myself. We decided to start with the bench press. Louis spotted me. He placed 50lbs, the lowest weight, on the bar. I was a little offended. I thought I could at least bench 100lbs! He assured me it was just standard practice to start with the lowest weight and work your way up.

“Lie back with your feet apart,” he instructed.

I had my hands on the bar and he lifted it off the rack looking down at me. “Now, when I let go, lower it to your chest then press it back up until you’ve locked your elbows. I’ll be here to catch it if it falls.”

I nodded. He was such a good teacher, patient and kind. I wished that dancing with girls could be as easy as being with Louis.

I grasped the bar like Louis showed me and gave him the signal.

He wouldn’t let go.

“I’m ready,” I confirmed aloud. “Let go.”

Louis’ face softened. “I can’t… Your chest is so tiny, like a baby bird. What if I crush you?”

“Louis!”

“Okay, okay.”

Slowly, he let go. It was heavier than I anticipated but I managed to do five reps. I stuck with 50lbs for the rest of my set. It turns out 100lbs was a little ambitious.

Next we moved onto free weights, then finally chin-ups. Louis was able to do twenty chin-ups. I did two but it was a solid two. Louis stood beneath me and held my legs so I could catch up to his twenty.

“I don’t think this counts,” I laughed.

“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

When we were done we hit the showers, our muscles absolutely aching. As Louis peeled off his sweaty clothes, I made a concerted effort not to look at his body. He was unselfconscious--most of the students at RBS were--but I would never get used being around hot naked bodies like Louis’ all day. I could barely control my reaction to him when we were both fully clothed. I knew if I looked at any part of him naked I would get hard instantly. I was terrified. It would be so embarrassing I would die of shame.

Like a robot, I faced forward staring only at the tiles, mechanically washing my hair as quick as I could.

Louis handed me the soap. “My arms hurt. You do my back and I’ll do yours.”

Oh no. How the hell was I supposed to look at him and touch him without getting hard? It was impossible!

He turned around and for the first time I was faced with the undeniable perfection that was Louis’ bum. Good God. I blinked the water out of my eyes and quickly began soaping his back, letting my hands slip over the contours of his smooth tanned skin. He looked so good, he felt so good…

Louis cleared his throat. “Forgetting something?” He held up the loofah sponge.

Ugh. Here I was like an idiot rubbing him down with my bare hands. He must have thought I was a total pervert.

“Sorry.” I took the sponge and soaped him up again, scrubbing until his skin turned rosy.

“Lower,” he said over his shoulder, his raspy voice echoing throughout the shower.

“Right.” I moved the sponge down his back.

“Lower.”

I took a deep breath and dragged the sponge to the base of his spine, right above his perfect bum. Louis’ head hung forward and he moaned a little. At first I was startled, then I kept scrubbing, harder and slower, trying to elicit more moans from him. He arched his back and moaned again, appreciatively. He liked this. I was doing something that Louis liked.

“Okay, your turn,” he said.

I swiveled around quickly, quicker than any pirouette I’d ever done in class. I was hard and I didn’t want him to see. He was fastidious as he scrubbed my shoulder blades. It felt nice but I preferred his hands. I wanted to make demands too. Like, tell him to go slow and all over… But I was too shy to ask. When he finished he moved me under the water to rinse. I felt soapsuds and hot water slip down my neck and back.

Then I felt another kind of heat.

His breath on my skin.

“Harry…” he murmured as he slid his arms around my waist and pressed his lips onto my back.

I shut my eyes and melted into his tender kiss. “Louis…”

He let go and I almost fell over.

“All done,” he said, turning off the shower and walking off.

I followed, shakily holding my shower caddy in front of me.

My heart was pounding the entire time we got dressed in the change room. Maybe tonight back in his room he would kiss me for real. He liked me, I thought. He wouldn’t kiss my back if didn’t like me at least a little, right? I’d never kissed anyone before and even though I loved the way his lips felt on my back I was desperate for him to kiss me on the mouth. He smiled at me as he did up his pants. Maybe he was thinking the exact same thing I was. He barely spent any time on his hair, which was unlike him. He wanted to get back to the room right away. So did I.

He was being really flirty the whole way back to the room, pinching and tickling me. We couldn’t take our eyes off each other and kept bumping into people. All good signs, I thought excitedly.

But when we stepped through the door: Disaster! Catastrophe! Zayn was lying on the bottom bunk.

“Gigi kicked me out.” He frowned. “She was in a mood after class.”

They both looked at me.

No! If only I had been able to lift Gigi! I could be alone in the room with Louis, kissing! Instead I had to pack up my things and leave. Why did I have to be such a crap dancer! Why was I cursed!

I kicked the floor. “I’ll go back to my room.”

Louis stopped me. “Hey, you don’t have to go. We can share my bed.”

Yes!

“Okay,” I said coolly.

But it was only seven o’clock. It was ages before bed. We got takeaway and played Halo with Zayn. It was fun and I liked Zayn but I was counting down the minutes until I could be in bed with Louis.

Louis was different with Zayn than he was with me, rougher. He made fun of him when he messed up in the game, calling him a “wanker,” and a “fucking noob.” But when I messed up he said, “Good try!” even though I wasn’t very good at all.

I still didn’t like having to share him with Zayn. I was used to having Louis all to myself. Now I had to compete for his attention. They had inside jokes and made each other laugh like crazy. And when Louis said something cute--which was always, because he’s Louis--Zayn would reach out and stroke his cheek… I didn’t like that one bit.

Worst of all, they were having the best time. As soon as one game ended Zayn insisted we play another, and another, and another.

“I’m tired!” I complained loudly.

“Just one more,” was Zayn’s refrain.

They kept playing. I got so impatient I threw down the controller in a huff and crossed my arms.

When they finally did get bored of playing, Zayn suggested we watch some pro-gamer play the exact same game on YouTube.

Louis was intrigued.

I was in hell.

I crawled up to the top bunk as stared at the photos of dead dancers on Louis’ wall and wondered if I would ever be half the dancer these men were. Then I wondered how many people each of them had kissed and whether someone would kiss me before I was dead.

Hours later, when I felt Zayn hop onto his bunk below, I thought, finally! It’s happening! Louis and I were going to share a bed and maybe, hopefully, kiss!

Louis climbed up the wooden ladder in just his boxers and I quickly shimmied out of my clothes and threw them down to the floor, accidentally hitting Zayn in the face.

I lifted the blanket, inviting Louis to lie down next to me. He slipped into bed and the temperature went up a hundred degrees. He was like a fireball of sex. He only had one pillow so we had to press our heads together. It was dark. His eyes reflected the moonlight that shone through the window. He was staring at me. I was staring at him. He inched closer… Then a bright surgical light beamed up from the bottom bunk, blinding us.

“Do you guys mind if I read for a while?” said Zayn.

Grrrrrrrrrrrr! Yes, I mind! I’m trying to have my first kiss over here!

“Sure, mate,” said Louis.

I had to settle for talking. For now…

“So… do you like anyone?” I asked coyly.

“Dunno,” he replied. His knee knocked into mine beneath the covers and he just left it there. Touching.

Hmmmmm.

“Who was your last crush?”

“He was in sixth year when I was in fourth.”

“Did you kiss him?” I blurted out. Smooth.

He smiled. “Yeah, loads of times.”

My fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.

“Did you have…” I couldn’t talk about sex with Zayn just below us so I spelled out S-E-X with my finger on Louis’ arm.

He laughed. “No. Never. I’m waiting until I have a…” and he spelled out the word B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D on my chest, right above my heart.

I thought I was going to faint! I wanted him to kiss me so badly. I almost didn’t care that Zayn was just beneath us, except for the fact that he would occasionally stop reading to chat. He had to go to sleep sometime, didn’t he? It was two in the morning and he was still reading. How long was this fucking book!

“What are you reading down there, War and Peace?” I said sarcastically, peering over the bed.

“Close. Anna Karenina. It’s excellent.”

I was exhausted, it was late and it seemed like Zayn would never stop reading. There was nothing to do now but give up and sleep. I fell back in despair. My curls alone took up half the pillow. I brushed them forward to give Louis some breathing room.

“You have the wildest hair of all the boys in school,” Louis marveled.

“I know,” I sighed, turning to my side. “Madame told me to cut it.”

Suddenly, Louis slid his arms around me like he did in the shower and held me tight, burying his face in the nape of my neck. “Don’t. I love your curls.”


	5. Chapter 5

LOUIS / PRESENT

Our first rehearsal didn’t start until seven but I got to the studio at five. I wanted to warm up and practice for at least two hours before Harry got there. 

I tore off my sweatshirt and joggers. The studio was empty and hot so I decided to dance in my boxers. They were purple with a giant gold crown on the bum. My mum bought them for me when I landed the part of Prince Siegfried. Cheeky.

I went to the stereo. There were a stack of CDs but I took my chances with the one already inside. Cascada. Why not? I warmed up at the barre. Then I moved onto the floor to practice turns and jumps. I got a little sidetracked by the catchy pop songs and freestyled for a while, grinding and winding against the barre, before refocusing. I didn’t overdue it so I would still be fresh for rehearsal. I’d be damned if I was going to let Styles show me up!

Around quarter to seven dancers I got dressed. Dancers began to sleepily wander into the studio, the women yawning while taping up fresh injuries and lacing up their point shoes, Zayn and the other men in the company lying on the vinyl flooring, stretching out their hamstrings. 

We would be meeting the choreographer for the first time. It was an informal rehearsal. He planned to introduce himself and his vision, and give a little talk about his working style and what we might expect in the coming weeks and months ahead. We were also blocking the first act. Even though we wouldn’t be learning very much chorography, this first rehearsal was important. Everyone would be there, including Kenneth, the ballet’s Artistic Director. 

Niall and Liam came in with two giant cups of coffee and took their seats on the foldout chairs at the back of the studio. Then Gigi and Eleanor came in next and plopped down next to me on the floor. Gigi would be playing the white swan, Odette, while Eleanor would play the black swan, Odil. I had been dancing with both of them since I was eleven. We had a keen sense of each other’s strengths and weaknesses and worked well together. They didn’t feel like colleagues, more like sisters. And like my real sisters, they also drove me completely nuts. 

Harry was late again. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a pattern with him. Kenneth stepped up to the front of the room with a clipboard ready to introduce the Swiss choreographer, Maurice Charrat. 

I raised my hand. “Wait, we’re missing one of the principal dancers. Harry Styles isn’t here yet.” 

Kenneth scratched his pale beard. “Harry won’t be in attendance today. He’s rehearsing alone in Studio B.”

“What? This rehearsal is for the whole company,” I said, reiterating what was stated in bold text in the email blast Liam sent out weeks earlier. 

Kenneth cleared his throat and continued his introduction. I knew he wanted me to drop the subject but I couldn’t. Who ever heard of a principal dancer missing the first day of rehearsal? What would Maurice think of us? 

After the introductions, Gigi, El and I formed a little circle and whispered to each other.

“Who does Harry think he is?” I hissed.

Gigi shrugged. “Maybe he has an injury?”

“He could be embroiled in some kind of scandal,” Eleanor suggested. “Why else would he want to leave the Bolshoi? They treat ballet dancers like royalty in Moscow!” 

“Fuck the Bolshoi,” I snapped. “Why would we ever want him back? He’s a turncoat! How do we know he’s not a bloody spy? I have half a mind to contact MI6 about this.”

“Oh come off it, Louis,” Gigi said, pressing a stray bobby pin into her bun. “He’s probably the greatest living dancer. I don’t care why he’s here. Ticket sales have tripled since he joined the company.”

Eleanor nodded. “That’s why Kenneth lets him have his way. He’s a cash cow.”

“Have you two gone mad? Harry is not the greatest living dancer!”

Eleanor pulled out a copy of Vanity Fair from her bag. “Name another dancer who’s made the cover of major magazine in the past fifty years.”

Why hadn’t I seen this? It was a glossy black and white cover shot by Annie Leibovitz. Harry was on his back, long dark hair pooling by his cheek, his half-lidded gaze boring into the lens, his moist lips parted. The headline read “Ballet’s Dark Prince: Can Harry Styles Bring Dance Back?” 

He looked like an oversexed rockstar. And bring dance back from what? Dance never left! To add insult to injury, everyone who saw this would probably think Harry was playing Prince Siegfried, not me. 

“Why did you bring this here?” I asked Eleanor, shaking the magazine in her face. 

She snatched it back. “Hey! Don’t bend it! I was hoping he could sign it for me.”

I looked to Gigi imploringly, “This is Harry we’re talking about. Harry Styles.”

“He’s not the kid from RBS who couldn’t do an arabesque lift. He’s at the top of his profession. That comes with special privileges, like being on magazine covers and rehearsing alone.” 

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

We had a short break before we began blocking Act One. I snuck past Liam in the doorway and stormed down the corridor to Studio B.

I took a peek through the door’s small window and there was Harry, shirtless in black tights, his hair tied up in a messy bun. His right knee was wrapped in an elastic brace and he was pacing the studio like a tiger. He had long, lean muscles, and tattoos on his chest and arms, like me. I was surprised. Part of me was expecting his body to look as it had when we were in school, soft and unmarked, frozen in time.

I entered the studio without knocking. 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I yelled, launching my attack. “The entire company is in Studio A, even Kenneth, and Niall the Music Director. Do you think your time is more valuable than theirs? I assure you it’s not. Never in my life have I heard of a dancer behaving this way! Not Baryshnikov, not Nureyev, not Godunov. No one. Who do you think you are?”

Harry swiveled around. He took out his earbuds and turned off the iPod on his hip. “Sorry, did you say something?”

Ugh! “I don’t know how they do things in Moscow but here in London when all dancers are asked to attend rehearsal that means all dancers attend rehearsal.”

Panting, Harry leaned against the barre and crossed one long leg over the other. “I work better alone.”

“This isn’t a one man show.” 

“This is my process.”

“You’re a dancer, you don’t have a process! You do as you’re told! What if we all decided to rehearse alone? Should everyone in the company just do whatever they want whenever they want?”

He stepped toward me, toweling off. “I’m not like other dancers.” 

“You think you’re better than they are?”

“Yes.”

I wanted to slap him. 

“You’re not. I don’t know who put that idea in your head.”

“You did, Louis. You always told me I was your favorite dancer, remember?” he said, so innocently that I saw a glimpse of the shy boy in Madame Lesauvage’s class.

“That’s not what I meant by that comment and you know it.”

His full lips formed a tiny smirk. “What did you mean then?”

I got flustered. “I—I was just being friendly.”

He stepped closer, eyebrow arched, edging me back to the door with the expanse of his glistening chest and broad shoulders. “Very friendly.” He hooked his sweaty towel around my neck. 

If he was trying to fuck with me it was working. I was fully under the spell of his beauty. He was beautiful when he was younger, but now he knew how to use it. 

“I have to get back to rehearsal,” I stammered, “because that’s what members of a company do. They rehearse. Together.”

“Bye.”

I couldn’t let him have the last word. “Don’t come crawling back to me when the whole company hates you!”

“I don’t need to be liked, least of all by you,” he sneered. 

“What is your fucking problem? You should be grateful I’m even talking to you after what you did to me!”

Harry turned angrily. “Don’t do me any favors.” 

It was a mistake coming in here. The only thing more toxic than hating someone, was hating someone you used to love. I had poison running through my veins. I couldn’t look at Harry’s face without thinking of that day. Me on my knees crying and him staring at me with complete indifference. The way he was staring at me now. 

Why then did I feel a pang of tenderness toward him? Why did I look at the brace on his knee and worry? Why was I holding his sweaty towel like it was the finest silk?

“You know, Harry, I would have forgiven you back then if you’d apologized.” Then I paused, summoning my courage. “I’d forgive you now if you apologized.”

He took the towel from my hands, his fingertips gently grazing my palms. My heart lifted. In that moment, he could be on a million magazine covers and dance every part in Swan Lake. I didn’t care. I would forgive him if he asked me to. He just had to say the word and I’d go back to being exactly as we were: best friends, twin souls, first loves. 

He leaned in until his cheek was next to mine and I could feel his breath on my ear. “I’ll never apologize, because I’m not sorry.”

Just like that I was sixteen again, blindsided and gutted. I stumbled backward into the door. 

Harry put his earbuds in but took them out again as I was leaving.

“Oh, Louis, before I forget--your entrechat seis needs work. You’re not getting enough height.”

I balled my hands into fists. “What the fuck do you know about my entrechat seis?”

“I was watching you warm up this morning. Nice boxers by the way. And Cascada… Wow. I had no idea you were so passionate about Euro dance music.” He winked cruelly. 

My cheeks were burning. “You’ve been in the studio since five?”

“I got here at four.”

Harry leapt up and demonstrated the entrechat seis flawlessly.


	6. Chapter 6

HARRY / PAST

I got to Madame Lesauvage’s class early like I always did. She was waiting for me with a pair of scissors. My hands flew up to my curls protectively. 

She stepped toward me with a stern expression and took me by the arm. I winced as I heard the scissors snip. I was scared to open my eyes and look in the mirror, but when I did I noticed that she hadn’t cut my curls. She cut off my colorful braided friendship bracelets. Three bracelets for the only three friends I had back in Cheshire. I’d worn them for years. They were a part of me. My wrist felt naked without them. 

“My bracelets!” I cried.

She was cold but not totally unsympathetic. “We’re beginning rehearsals for A Midsummer Night’s Dream soon. You can’t perform with these. Beauchamp won’t have it.” She handed them back to me. “You can still keep them as a memento. Tie them to your bag.”

I nodded and sniffed. I was tying them to my bag as Louis and Liam entered the studio. I kept my head down so they wouldn’t see me crying. 

“Hey, what is it?” Louis asked.

“Nothing,” I said, clasping a hand over my wrist.

Louis knew something was wrong. He knew me better than anyone. After the night we shared a bed, Louis and I continued to share a bed whether Zayn was there or not. It wasn’t something we talked about, it just sort of happened. We tried to sleep apart but one of us would always give in and sneak into the other’s bed. It was usually me, and by morning I had my arms and legs wrapped around him like a koala bear. We hated to be apart during the day too. We spent mornings, evenings and lunch together, and the few hours we spent apart during class were agony. When we had to go to our respective homes for the long weekend, our parents had to physically pry us apart when we hugged goodbye. They said we’d gotten too attached but I didn’t care and neither did Louis. 

So, later that afternoon, when the soda machine on Louis’ floor wasn’t working, it wasn’t unusual that he offered to go with me to the other boys’ floor to use theirs. We performed even the simplest daily tasks together. But Louis was busy working on an essay and I didn’t want to drag him away from his work. I said I didn’t mind going alone. 

I ventured to the other boys’ floor at Jebsen House, loose change jangling in my pocket. Only, this didn’t look like the other boys’ floor. I wandered around until I found a soda machine. I should have known I was in the wrong place. It was clean and everything smelled like shampoo. 

I was on the girls’ floor. 

I quickly got a Pepsi and ran to the stairwell when Gigi popped out of her room. 

“Well, well, well, what have we here? Are you lost, little lamb?”

“I’m—“ Before I could explain she grabbed my arm and dragged me into her room. 

Eleanor was sprawled out on the floor painting her nails on top of her math homework. She squealed with delight at the sight of my scared expression.

The girls wasted no time torturing me. Gigi strapped me into a sparkly blue tutu while El began painting my nails. It was easier to give in than try and fight them. Besides it wasn’t so bad. In some ways hanging out with girls was a relief. I didn’t have to worry about getting a hard on and they always had chocolate. 

“I can’t stay long. Louis will wonder where I am.”

“What’s the deal with you two?” said Eleanor slyly. 

“Nothing!”

“Oh come on, we know he’s in love with you,” Gigi purred. 

“He is?” I said, too eagerly.

“Ha!” said Eleanor. “So you admit it, there is something going on.”

It was a trap. 

“Please don’t say anything,” I begged them. 

Eleanor blew on the wet nail polish on my left hand and grabbed my right. “Your secret’s safe with us, honey. Have you kissed him yet?”

“No,” I said gloomily. “I’m not sure he wants to. I mean, we sleep in the same bed sometimes…” I didn’t tell them it was every night. They already thought we were freakishly close. “And he kissed my back in the shower once but I don’t think it meant anything.”

Gigi blinked. “Hold up. How the hell did he end up kissing your back in the shower?”

“Well, he said we should wash each other’s backs because our arms were sore and--“

Eleanor burst out laughing. “And you fell for that?”

“Wait, you guys don’t do that? I thought it was, like, a dance school thing.”

The girls were holding their stomachs they were laughing so hard. 

“No, Harry, we don’t do that,” said Gigi. “I’ve gotta hand it to Louis. He’s bold.”

Eleanor yawned and began working on a second coat of polish. “He obviously wants you, Harry. You guys should just hook up.”

“But how?” I said with exasperation. “How do I turn friend-love into love-love?”

Gigi sat in front of me and began roughly styling my hair, trying to brush my unruly curls into submission. “What do you mean how? Just kiss him for fuck’s sake!”

“I’m too shy!” I said, practically in tears. “I’ve never kissed anyone before. I don’t even know how!”

Eleanor grabbed my shoulders. “Calm down. We’ll help you.”

I listened carefully to their advice. I should have been writing this stuff down because they had a lot of really good tips. 

“First, you’ve gotta draw attention to your mouth.” Gigi went into her desk drawer and brought out some candy. “You’ve already got pouty lips. That’s sexy. But suck on a lollipop and you’ll look even sexier.”

She unwrapped the lollipop and demonstrated. It looked pornographic! 

“Wow. Is this how you get Zayn to kiss you?”

She and Eleanor laughed again. “Zayn doesn’t kiss me. I kiss him.” 

“What else?” I said. 

“You should put on a movie. Make sure the room is dark.”

Dark, I said to myself. Got it.

“Lean on him. Like, pretend you’re tired,” added Eleanor. 

“Won’t he just think I’m tired?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“Then,” Gigi went on, “casually drop your hand in his lap.”

“Whoa! That seems way too forward.”

“What if Louis did that to you?” Gigi countered. 

“I’d come in my pants.”

“Exactly.”

She might be onto something. 

This was all becoming too real. I was starting to freak out. “What if I do all that and he kisses me? What do I do then?”

Eleanor slapped her forehead. “Kiss him back!” 

“Just open your mouth and move your lips and tongue like this,” Gigi instructed, using Eleanor as a prop. She held El’s face in her hands, glossy brown waves spilling over her wrists. Then she leaned in and began massaging her tongue in her friend’s mouth, their soft pink lips crushing against each other gently. Gigi broke the kiss but El lingered on her lips. Gigi was so good at this. 

Eleanor came to and cleared her throat. “Louis will do most of the work anyway. He knows you’ve never kissed anyone before.”

Did I have ‘never been kissed’ written across my forehead? “Is it that obvious?”

“Honestly, yes.” 

We unwrapped the lollipops and talked technique while licking and swirling our tongues around the hard red candy. 

Just then, Louis and Zayn tumbled through the door. 

“There you are!” Louis cried. “I’ve been worried sick… Dear God, what have these harpies done to you?”

Gigi fluffed up my tutu. “He’s Titania. Pretty, no?”

“He’s Lysander!” Louis barked. He pulled me up off the ground and ripped off the tutu. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said, his hand fixed possessively on the small of my back.

“Wait!” Gigi put a cluster of lollipops in my hand. I gave her a knowing look. 

Louis rolled his eyes. “Quit trying to buy his love, Gigi! He was my friend first! You can’t have him.”

“You’ll thank me for this later, Tomlinson. Mark my words.”

Zayn stayed behind in Gigi’s room and Louis and I went back upstairs to his. 

“Gigi is so damn greedy!” Louis complained as he stomped up the steps. “She takes up all of Zayn and Eleanor’s time and now she’s trying to steal you away from me too!”

“She’s not so bad,” I said, still sucking on my lollipop. “Want to watch a movie?”

He agreed, though all he really wanted to do was bitch about Gigi. All I wanted to do was kiss him the way Gigi kissed Eleanor! 

I picked the sexiest movie I could find on his computer, which wasn’t sexy at all but it would have to do. “Guardians of the Galaxy?” I suggested. 

“Sure.”

We nestled together on the top bunk with his laptop on our thighs. As he clicked on the movie, I sucked on my lollipop suggestively, smacking my lips for added effect.

He leaned back as the movie started. It was still sunny outside. The room needed to be dark!

“Let me close the drapes so we can see the screen better.” I climbed off the bed and drew the drapes. Then I climbed back on the bed and cuddled up next to him, staring right in his eyes as I twirled the lollipop in my mouth. 

The girls were right. He was looking at my lips now. 

“That looks tasty,” he said. 

“It is,” I replied breathlessly through a mouthful of candy.

He plucked the lollipop from my mouth and stuck it in his, winking at me cheekily. 

Dammit.

I had to move onto plan B. Five minutes into the movie I slowly leaned over, until my head was on his shoulder. He draped an arm around me and pulled me in even closer. It was working! I had to wait a few more minutes before I could make my next move and put my hand on his lap. My arm was tucked awkwardly behind me and his body was so comfortable I didn’t want to move. Every time I tried he drew me more tightly to his chest. 

Then he slipped a hand under my shirt and began to pet my back. We only did this to each other in bed at night, when we were half-asleep--never during the day when we were lucid enough to acknowledge it was happening. 

I completely forgot about my plan and gave in to the sensation of him petting me. Then he began to say the things he only had the courage to say at night: “Do you like this? Your skin is so soft, Harry. I like touching you…” 

Louis’ touch felt like feathers and fireworks and everything good in this world. There was nothing I loved more than being touched by him. Then I began to say the things I only had the courage to say at night: “I like it. Your hands feel so good, Louis. More, more…” 

I could feel his breathing quicken. I knew if I lifted my head he would kiss me. But I couldn’t. The more he petted me, the more relaxed I became, until my eyelids grew heavier and heavier and I drifted off to sleep…

I woke up hours later, tucked into bed with Louis doing his homework beside me. 

“I missed the whole movie! Why didn’t you wake me?” Screw the movie! I missed the perfect chance to kiss him.

He closed his textbook. “You look like an angel when you sleep.”

Good answer. 

My arms were under the covers and like a ghost limb I could still feel my old friendship bracelets on my wrist. I touched my wrist out of habit but noticed that there was a bracelet there! I pulled out my arm and saw a braided leather bracelet with a silver bead. 

“It’s mine,” said Louis. “I know Madame cut yours off. I saw you crying in the studio earlier. So, I gave you mine while you were asleep. See, it has a clasp so you can take it off during class.” 

I nodded but I knew that I would never take it off. Ever. 

I held up my hand to admire it more closely. “Thank you, Louis. I love it! This is the nicest friendship bracelet anyone’s ever given me.”

Louis took my hand in his and kissed it. “You’re more than a friend, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up on Friday!


	7. Chapter 7

LOUIS / PRESENT 

We were rehearsing the first scene in which Harry’s character Von Rothbart appears. In the scene, I, Prince Siegfried, try to kill the evil sorcerer Von Rothbart by the enchanted lake. I was polishing my crossbow as Harry stepped into the studio. 

He was in sweats and a loose fitting t-shirt with a hair elastic in his mouth as he drew his chestnut mane into a bun. He missed a few tendrils by the nape of his neck. His hair wasn’t as curly at this length, but those little baby hairs on his neck reminded me how curly and soft it used to be…

“Are you listening, Louis?” sang Maurice. “I said we’re ready for you.”

I stood up. 

Maurice was an egg-shaped man with tiny black eyes and a tall white pompadour. He was grand with a flare for the dramatic but also sensitive and eager to please. He treated dancers like stepchildren whom he was desperate to win over. 

Harry was embracing Gigi in the corner of the studio, having a quiet conversation that I wasn’t privy to. No matter, I needed to stretch anyway. I didn’t have time for frivolous chitchat. 

I extended the crossbow in front of me, and my leg behind me. The pianist began to play Tchaikovsky’s haunting eight-note arrangement in F sharp—the tragic melody that played on little girls’ jewelry boxes around the world. It signaled dread and doom and innocence lost, or stolen. 

Harry leapt at me, flying across the studio in a grand jette, followed by a series of pirouettes. Von Rothbart took the form of an owl in this scene and Harry moved his arms powerfully like wings. He was hitting the movements hard but the count and his expression were off.

Maurice stopped him and, in a thick Swiss accent that made him sound like he had a mouth full of cotton, instructed Harry to follow his count and harden his features. 

“I disagree,” Harry said flatly. 

Oh boy, I thought, here we fucking go. 

Gigi stretched her arms behind her head and gave me a look that said, yikes!

Maurice must have thought it was a miscommunication due to the language barrier. Winningly, he explained: “He is evil, Harry, and your expression must be evil, and you enter on my count with the music, not against it. Yes?”

Harry was marking his steps, watching himself carefully in the mirror instead of addressing the choreographer directly. 

“We don’t know that he’s evil.”

I actually started laughing. 

Maurice was flabbergasted. “He is an evil sorcerer! This is what he is!” 

This argument was so ridiculous I had to interject. “Harold, you do realize we’re doing Swan Lake, right? Your character literally casts an evil spell on a bunch of women turning them into swans. It’s sort of the point of the whole ballet.”

He took Gigi in his arms and practiced his arabesque lift, which he had no problems with now. In his arms she was light as a doll.

“Of course,” he said distractedly. “But we don’t know why he did it. Nobody knows who wrote the story of Swan Lake or what it means. The reason for Von Rothbart's curse upon Odette has always been a mystery.”

I glanced sympathetically at Maurice who was loosening his jaunty scarf, seemingly fashioning it into a noose.

I crossed my arms. “He’s evil. Mystery solved.”

“People aren’t just evil.”

“He’s not a person! He’s a fucking owl!”

Wardrobe had given Harry a two pieces of fabric to act as practice wings in rehearsal so he could get used to the size and shape of them as he moved. He slipped them on. “The owl is the symbol of Athena, the goddess of wisdom. Owls have the ability to see in the dark. Maybe Von Rothbart sees something that Odette doesn’t. Maybe he’s protecting her.”

I pointed my crossbow at him and turned to Maurice, “Permission to shoot, Sir.”

“Take five.”

I went into the corridor to fill up my water bottle at the fountain when I ran into Liam who was smartly dressed in a navy suit with a cheerful yellow tie. He held a clipboard against his chest and was on his way to Studio A to meet with the corps de ballet. It was damp out, which made his joints ache so he was using a cane.

“How’s it going?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Oh, you know, the usual. Harry thinks turning women into swans is a perfectly sensible thing to do and that Von Rothbart is actually a feminist hero!”

Liam scratched his beard. “Interesting. It could work.”

“It’s blasphemy! Maurice looks like he’s about to walk. I don’t blame him.”

Liam peered worriedly through the studio window. I could understand why they were all trying so hard to accommodate Harry—they thought he was England’s Baryshnikov. It was a stretch, then again I didn’t have to worry about ticket sales and go over the ledgers every night the way Kenneth and Liam did. What I couldn’t understand was how they could put the entire company’s reputation on the line for one dancer. Was he really that good? Was anyone that good?

Liam tapped my leg with his cane. “Want to go to dinner later? I’m dying to try that new Haitian place in Camden.”

I wet my hands and slicked my hair back, pressing a cold palm to the nape of my neck. “Can’t. I have a date.”

“A date! You haven’t dated in ages.” 

“Hey! It hasn’t been that long. I thought I’d give that Jeremy bloke in the corps de ballet a shot.”

“You mean Jeffrey.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Liam pressed his lips together to conceal a smile. “This sudden interest in dating wouldn’t have anything to do with Harry joining the company, would it?”

“What? You’re crazy. People want to date me, Liam. I can’t help it. I’m a catch.”

We parted ways and I headed back into the studio. Harry was working on his solo, Maurice yelling at him over the music.

“Stop playing!” Maurice ordered the pianist. 

“Keep playing!” Harry ordered back. He was sweating now and pulled off his shirt.

I leaned on the barre next to Gigi who was watching the scene unfold like a car crash. 

“He’s either a monster or a genius,” she breathed. 

Maurice stepped into Harry’s space to physically stop the rehearsal. 

“Move!” Harry pushed Maurice back and kept dancing, jumping higher and faster than he did before.

“Monster,” I said to Gigi. “Definitely a monster.”

I picked up the crossbow, holding it loosely by the handle.

Harry took long dramatic strides in a circle around the room—the extension of his legs, the distance he covered with such grace and speed was breathtaking, like a bird skimming the surface of a lake. Effortlessly, he leapt into the air so fast and so high I gasped and accidentally squeezed the trigger, shooting a plastic arrow right at his back. He fell down to the floor with a loud smack. 

The studio went quiet for a moment, Gigi horrified, Maurice stunned. 

Harry rubbed his injured knee, then stood up and came at me. 

I put my hands up. “It was an accident, I swear!”

“You did that on purpose, Tomlinson! You’ve been pointing that thing at me since I got here!”

“I was trying to get into character!” I spat, pushing my hands against his chest, which felt like a wall. 

“Bullshit!” He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me hard against the mirror. 

Gigi tried to step between us but Harry was too powerful. He bypassed her and threw me to the ground. I was so shocked I just lay there for a second as he hit me. Hard. His fist felt like a brick. I held his wrists to keep him from swinging but he wouldn’t give up. He broke free and kept hitting me. I could feel my shock dissipating and my own anger bubbling up. I flipped him on his back and straddled his chest, holding his wrists down. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Harry?” I breathed in his reddening face. “Are you out of your mind?”

He bucked and writhed wildly beneath me. I tightened my thighs around his sweaty chest and he stopped. We stared at each other, panting. Then his wrist slipped free from my grip and he swung at me again. I got him in a chokehold as we tumbled around on the ground. Suddenly, I felt a sharp scratch against my rib. I yelped. I was bleeding and my shirt was torn.

The sight of blood gave Maurice the courage to intervene and made Harry realize he’d gone too far.

“I didn’t mean to…”

Maurice wrapped his arms around me protectively. “How dare you lay your hands on another dancer?”

As blood seeped through the fabric of my torn shirt Gigi got the First Aid Kit. 

“I don’t know how…” Harry looked at his hands.

“Your bracelet,” said Gigi. “The clasp cut him.”

This further outraged Maurice who was already way past his breaking point. “Jewelry in the studio is forbidden!”

“I never take it off.” Harry crawled to his knees and stood up. He examined the bracelet to make sure the clasp wasn’t broken. 

I recognized it instantly. It was the leather bracelet I’d given him when we were in school. He’d kept it after all this time? 

When I was all bandaged up, Maurice kissed me on both cheeks, ignoring Harry, and left the studio in a huff. Gigi followed him trying desperately to reassure him that this would never happen again. She shot us a threatening look. I knew if we didn’t get our act together she’d bring in a real crossbow next time.

Harry zipped a hoodie over his naked chest and tucked his shirt into his bag. 

I took off my shirt, torn and bloody, and threw it in the trash. 

“I’ll replace it,” he said without looking at me. 

I couldn’t stop staring at the bracelet on his wrist, remembering what he said to Maurice: I never take it off. 

He took his iPod out of his bag and unfurled the headphones wrapped around it. I held his wrist, gently this time, though it was still red from where I’d gripped him roughly before. 

“Harry…”

His sorrowful eyes lifted to meet mine. “Louis…” 

Then I heard the boyish singsong banter of Jeremy or Jeffrey or whatever his name was. “Ready to go, Louis?” 

Harry broke away from me. 

“Oh jeez,” the blonde boy said as he noticed the bandage stretched along my ribcage. “What happened?”

“Nothing. It was an accident.”

He put his hand over the bandage. “Does it hurt?” I knew this American kid from Nebraska or wherever, was trying to be helpful but I didn’t have the patience for his attempts at chivalry, not when I was trying to have a proper conversation with Harry. 

“Don’t worry,” said Jeffrey, his hand suddenly on my ass. “I’ll kiss it better tonight… Let’s go.”

Harry quickly put his headphones in and began practicing his turns and jumps, wincing with each landing. 

He didn’t need to practice. What he needed was rest. 

“Harry,” I shouted. “Go home! You’ve been in the studio all day. It’s not good for your knee. Your body needs a break.”

He turned up the volume on his iPod and stared at me blankly in the mirror, continuing to punish his tired body. 

There was nothing I could do except go, leaving Harry alone and in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter! I'll post Chapter 8 next Friday. 
> 
> You're still a couple chapters away from finding out what their falling out was about, but next week's "past" chapter will give you a hint.


	8. Chapter 8

HARRY / PAST

 

Today was the day. Louis woke up two hours early to get dressed and fix his hair. He had a full-on fanboy meltdown in the mirror when he couldn’t get his quiff to look just right. 

Alexander Beauchamp had arrived at the school and would be holding auditions for A Midsummer Night’s Dream that morning. 

Louis was running circles around me telling me to get ready. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” He wanted to get there before the audition started so he could introduce himself to Beauchamp.

Nobody was wearing tanks and sweatpants today. We were all in our ballet best—I wore black tights and Louis wore dove grey with a white scoop-neck bodysuit. He looked so soft and pretty I wanted to rub my cheek against him. 

I defied the dress code somewhat by wearing the leather bracelet that Louis gave me. I put my arm behind my back as I walked past Madame Lesauvage in the hall.

Beauchamp looked older than he did in his picture. He had silver hair neatly parted to the side and rimless glasses that cut across his heavy brow. He tossed his suit jacket on a foldout chair the second he stepped into the studio and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. He had an umbrella with him even though it wasn’t raining out. 

Louis ran up to him before our warm-up, with an old programme, the paper shaking in his sweaty hands. “Mr. Beauchamp, would you mind signing this programme?”

“I haven’t seen this in ages!” he chuckled, his long elegant fingers skimming the pages. “What’s your name?”

“Louis Tomlinson,” said Louis, flipping to the page he wanted signed. “This was the first ballet I ever saw. It’s what made me want to be a dancer.”

“How old were you?”

“Five. My mum took me.”

“Five,” he said, and with mock sternness, “You’re making me feel old, Tomlinson.” 

“Sorry, Sir,” said Louis, apologetically. Beauchamp laughed again and handed back the signed programme. Louis thanked him profusely. 

Beauchamp instructed us to take our places at the barre. I quickly hugged Louis’ shoulders and whispered, “good luck.” 

He patted my hand. “You too.”

Beauchamp walked up and down the rows of dancers with the long black umbrella in his hand, tapping the ground to keep count. He stopped next to Louis, nodding approvingly. Louis did his exercises with ease and precision as usual but I knew he was flipping out on the inside. 

We did some floor work and took a break before we would each get to perform the brief solos we’d been preparing for weeks. We waited in the hall and were called in one by one.

I was a lost cause, so I wasn’t really nervous. Louis was shaking. As nervous as I was for him, I was kind of glad he was freaking out because it gave me an excuse to touch him. We sat across from each other on the floor and I rubbed his thighs consolingly. He looked thick and cut in those tights… Louis’ head fell on my chest and I happily gathered him up in my arms. 

“It’s okay. You’re going to do great!” I stroked the back of his head, which was soft and slick as a seal pup. 

“What if I mess up? He’s my idol. I’ll die.”

“You won’t mess up. Your technique is flawless.” You’re flawless, I thought. 

In the midst of all this platonic comforting I completely forgot about my own audition. I was called in first. 

The studio was a scary place during an audition—empty and cold—when the only body to warm it up was your own. It was amazing how different a room could look and feel when you inhabited it for a different purpose. 

I gave my sheet music to the school’s ballet pianist, a kind, perpetually sniffling older lady named Mary. 

Beauchamp had a yellow legal pad in front of him. He asked me to introduce myself. 

I didn’t really have anything prepared. “Harry Styles, 15.”

He smiled. “Is that it?”

“Um, yeah.” 

Mary blew her nose and began playing. I started my solo on the wrong count but stopped and caught up to the music. I had been working on my jumps with Louis but they were never quite right. I couldn’t reach full extension in the air. Louis thought it was fear, that I bent my knees too early because subconsciously I didn’t trust my body to land safely. 

Beauchamp scribbled something down after my weak grand jeté. 

I might not have nailed the big technical elements but I was able to get into character. It was a somber number from Giselle. I concentrated on the music, my facial expressions and my arms, moving from bras bas to the grande pose with a heavy sadness beyond my years and experience.

Beauchamp put his pen down and clapped. “You’re a sensitive performer, Mr. Styles.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I panted, red-faced and out of breath. 

“You need to work on your technique, but I think you know that already.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He escorted me out of the studio. 

Louis was pacing the halls, chewing his nails to stubs. When it was his turn, I watched through the studio’s small square window. He performed a spritely number from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He was perfect, pure sunshine and a joy to watch. 

When Louis was done, he tumbled out of the studio and collapsed theatrically on the ground, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. 

“What did he say?” I asked, excited for him.

“I’m not sure. I was so nervous I think I blacked out for a second.”

Done for the day, Beauchamp walked out of the studio, the wooden handle of the umbrella dangling from his wrist, his jacket slung over his shoulders like a cape. 

Louis stood up immediately like a soldier and the older man clasped his shoulder. “Incredible work today, Tomlinson.”

Then he glanced at me and smiled warmly, “And you, ‘Harry Styles, 15,’ that was a very mature performance for such a young boy.”

We both nodded appreciatively with our hands behind our backs before turning the corner and jumping up and down. 

 

***

 

The cast list was posted the following morning. 

The only dancers in our year to get lead roles were Gigi and Liam. She would be playing Helena and he got the coveted role of Puck. 

I knew before I looked at the list that I would get the smallest part available and I was right. I was cast as a background dancer. 

Louis may not have landed a leading role but he got a solo. He was ecstatic.

Just because we didn’t get the parts of Demetrius and Lysander didn’t mean we couldn’t dream about it. We’d sneak into the wings of the theatre when the main cast was rehearsing and memorize the choreography to practice later at the dorm. 

Up in the rafters was the best spot to watch. Nobody could see us and we had a view of the whole stage. Beauchamp was a lot tougher in rehearsal than he was during the audition. Instead of lightly tapping his umbrella, he pounded the floor and swung it around threateningly like a sword to emphasize his point. Gigi got yelled at for missing her mark by a hair. I’d never heard anyone snap at her like that. I don’t think she had either. 

But maybe enduring all that yelling and umbrella swinging was worth it, because the scene was magnificent. Comical and beautiful—each character so vivid in their movements and expressions I forgot that they were students or even dancers. I was completely transported to Athens. 

The best part was watching Louis’ face as they performed. His nose got all scrunched up and his eyes crinkled as he laughed and smiled. He was shining from the inside out. I had a hard time focusing on the choreography because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. 

It had been weeks since I fell asleep during Guardians of the Galaxy and I thought I’d never find another opportunity to kiss him. We were always too tired, too awkward or too shy. It never felt like the right time. But here in the rafters, where we were on top of the world, where there was music playing and stagelight and shadow danced on our cheeks, it was perfect. The only problem was Louis was so engrossed in the rehearsal below that it was hard to get his attention. 

I don’t know if it was the secluded space backstage, or watching the students below profess their love to each other in epic fashion, but I felt emboldened. 

“I like you,” I said.

“I like you too,” he responded, still watching the dancers.

I don’t think he got my meaning, so I put my hand in his lap. He faced me. 

“I like you,” I said again, but quietly this time. It was hard to be bold when he was looking right at me. 

I leaned my head forward. Eleanor said that Louis would do all the work but that wasn’t true! I was really putting myself out there and Louis hadn’t moved an inch.

With my eyes closed I pressed my lips against his, then immediately pulled back. I panicked. Oh God, what if I had it all wrong and he wasn’t interested in me like that? What if the reason he hadn’t kissed me yet was that he just wanted to be friends? 

Louis blinked. 

The next thing I knew his lips were on mine, soft and warm, his heart thudding against my chest, his breathing frantic. He moved into me and I fell back onto my elbows, lying down as he climbed on top of me. He broke our kiss. “Wait,” he whispered. He unzipped his hoodie and gallantly spread it out on the ground behind me. He cradled the back of my head and laid me down. I touched his cheek and he was kissing me again, slow and deep and with tongue. I had no idea what to do, so I just did what felt good and moved my tongue against his. He was all over me—kissing my face, my neck, snaking his hands under my shirt to feel my bare chest and stomach. Louis kissed like he danced, with his whole body, in frenzied bursts of passion. I felt my pants tighten but for the first time in my life I wasn’t embarrassed about getting hard in front of another person. All those hot, messy urges finally found a purpose and that purpose was Louis. 

He sucked a kiss onto my neck and I moaned loudly. “Shhhhh,” he laughed, and nestled his hips between my thighs, licking, kissing and sucking my neck until I was writhing with pleasure beneath him. It didn’t take long for him to notice I was hard. A low growl escaped his lips and he started grinding against me. He was hard too. Feeling his hard on against mine through our pants drove me completely crazy. I didn’t even care if I was doing it wrong, I put my mouth on his and hungrily kissed him and clawed at his back as we bucked against each other with abandon. 

Then he stopped. “Harry, I have to tell you something.”

No, I thought, no talking. More kissing. “Uh huh.”

“I really like you.”

“I know!” I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down, urging him to keep going.

“I’ve had the biggest crush on you since the day we met.”

“Why didn’t you kiss me before?”

“Because I wasn’t sure you were ready… And because you kept falling asleep.” 

I covered my face and groaned with embarrassment. 

He took my hand away. “But you’re awake now.”

“I am.”

He kissed me, smiling against my lips. 

“Hey!” one of the sixth year girls barked. “What are you doing up here?”

All of the dancers below looked up at us. Louis grabbed my hand and we ran like hell, bursting through the stage doors into the corridor, laughing. My face was still hot and my clothes twisted on my body from making out. Louis began leaping and doing petit jetes around me. I chased after him, my strides punctuated by endenetes and pirouettes. 

I got so dizzy I didn’t see where I was going and crashed right into Gigi.

“What are you two idiots up to? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing with the other background dancers?”

“Shut up, Gigi! We’re Demetrius and Lysander,” Louis called, spinning past her.

“Yeah!” I echoed.

We danced our way to the studio, cackling. I wished we didn’t have rehearsal. I was desperate to go back to our room and continue what we’d started in the rafters. 

At the barre, I looked in the mirror and examined my face. My lips were puffy and red, my pupils dilated, and my chest and neck blotchy. I turned around. Louis looked as wrecked as I did. 

I stripped down to my tights and his blue eyes flashed with desire for me. I wondered what would happen later that night when we were in bed, in just our underwear… 

Beauchamp walked into the studio and Louis gave me a quick kiss on the neck, which made me smile stupidly. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had no idea how I was going to get through rehearsal. 

But I did. Beauchamp worked us as hard as he did the leads, yelling, stomping his umbrella and issuing sharp corrections roughly with his hands. I was singled out the most because of my lack of technique. At this point I was getting used to it. 

Louis on the other hand continuously elicited praise from Beauchamp. “Excellent, Louis,” “Well done, Louis,” “Impeccable as always, Mr. Tomlinson.”

By the end of rehearsal I was drenched with sweat and exhausted, my muscles trembling. I crawled toward my backpack when Beauchamp called us all to the center of the room. He had an announcement.

“As many of you know my wife Irina Beauchamp is a prima ballerina with the Paris Opera Ballet. I am going to see the company’s production of Swan Lake on opening night and, like last year and the year before that, I like to bring one promising young student with me.” 

Louis’ whole body tensed like somebody stuck a rod up his back. He’d mentioned this trip before. The last student Beauchamp took to Paris got a spot in a company before he even graduated from RBS. We all assumed he’d be taking Liam or one of the other leads.

Beauchamp approached Louis and I held my breath. This was a huge honor. I was so proud of him! Surely this gave me bragging rights. I was officially best friends (maybe boyfriends) with the most promising student at the Royal Ballet School!

However, Beauchamp kept walking and stopped beside me. “Harry, I’d like to take you with me.”

I looked over my shoulder. “Me? Are you sure?”

He laughed. “I’m sure.”

Louis shut his eyes, completely gutted. 

I wanted to say no, but I didn’t know how. Beauchamp was in charge, he was famous and important and the whole room was watching.

“Thank you, Sir, I’d love to.”

“Wonderful. I’ll need a permission slip from a parent or guardian. We’ll leave on Thursday. You’ll have two days of sightseeing in Paris before the show. Have you ever seen Swan Lake?”

I lowered my voice so the rest of the dancers wouldn’t hear. “I’ve never been to the ballet.”

Snickering echoed throughout the studio.

Beauchamp nodded sympathetically. “This trip will be good for you, Harry.”

As dancers shuffled out of the studio, I turned around to look for Louis. He was by the door, about to leave without me. I caught up to him and he swung his bag over his shoulder nonchalantly. He was acting like what just happened was no big deal, but I knew him. I could tell that he was upset. 

We stepped into the hall. I began walking toward Jebsen but Louis headed in the other direction. 

“Don’t you want to go back to our room?” I asked.

“I’m going to the gym.”

“Can I come?”

“I’d rather go alone.” 

We stood there for a moment shuffling our feet. 

“I’m sorry, Louis. I didn’t want him to pick me. He shouldn’t have picked me. I suck.”

Louis softened. “You don’t suck. You’re a special dancer, Harry. I can see that and Beauchamp can see it too.”

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, just jealous. That’s all.”

“I don’t want you to be jealous! I want you to like me!” I cried, my voice cracking. I didn’t even want to go on this stupid trip! I didn’t care about Beauchamp or Paris or Swan Lake. All I wanted to do was make out with Louis and be his boyfriend! 

Louis gave me a weak smile. “I still like you.”

I kissed his cheek and he walked away. His shoulders slumped as he turned the corner.


	9. Chapter 9

LOUIS / PRESENT

I made Jeffrey dinner back at my place. It was nothing fancy, just spinach and tortellini soup. He balked at the carbs saying he really had to watch his figure, but scarfed it down all the same.

After dinner he shamelessly snooped around my flat as I made coffee and tea in the kitchenette. His fingers grazed spines of the books on my shelf. Most were biographies and memoirs of famous ballet dancers and footballers, but I had some classics too--Don Quixote was my favorite--and a few choice mysteries and thrillers.

I set down a tray on the coffee table. He found my stereo and put on a soft jazz channel he found on satellite radio. Not my favorite but I didn’t object. 

We sat next to each other on my polyester loveseat. My furniture was inexpensive but not shabby. I was too old for the ramshackle fixtures of student life but not old enough to start making a serious investment in interior design. He didn’t mention the look of the place but was impressed I had a flat in the center of town with no roommate.

Jeffrey wasn’t bad company. He was attentive and bubbly, finding humor in every situation, which was a good quality to have when getting to know someone. His hair was that fine powder blonde you see only on children and he had long gold lashes and a small upturned nose. 

Even though though we were only two years apart he seemed a lot younger than me. He had only come out recently, when he got to London. Apparently there weren’t many openly gay men in Lincoln, Nebraska. He wouldn’t stop talking about all the gay clubs he’d been to in London and the gay clubs he was dying to go to. He’d been in the city less than a year and he’d already heard (and spread) all the juicy gay gossip from Voho to Primrose Hill. He was a total scenester. I didn’t fault him for this but it wasn’t really what I was looking for, I’d done all that ages ago. 

I felt more comfortable when he changed the subject to the company and rehearsals. We both really liked Maurice and agreed that he was one of the best choreographers we’d ever worked with.

Then out of nowhere he asked, “What’s the deal with you and Harry? Are you two fucking?”

I spit out my tea. “What? No, of course not!”

He cocked his head at my reaction and softened his line of questioning. “Did you used to date?”

“Not exactly. We were best mates in school. We’re definitely not best mates anymore.”

“Good. He’s a prick.”

“Yeah,” I laughed, heartily, though I was annoyed. What did this brat know about Harry? Harry was a principal dancer, a world famous dancer at that. I didn’t like him either but that was beside the point. Jeffrey was a corps dancer—he should show some goddamn respect!

“He spends all his time alone,” Jeffrey said under his breath in that sly, gossipy way of his. “He doesn’t talk to anyone. Like, why is he here? If he hates us so much why didn’t he just stay in Moscow?”

“He’s English. This is his home,” I said hotly. 

“He doesn’t act like it. He acts like he’s doing us this huge fucking favor by being here. I don’t even think he’s that good.”

I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Do you want a scotch?”

“Do you have anything lighter, like white wine?”

“No,” I replied drily. 

“Okay, I’ll have a scotch, with Pepsi or Coke, if you have it.”

I mixed Jeffrey a drink and threw back mine before pouring myself another. When I sat back down Jeffrey put his hand on my thigh. 

“You’re really hot, Louis.”

Oh Lord. It took every ounce of effort not roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

Jeffrey took a sip of his drink, his tongue dancing on the tumbler’s edge. I should have been thinking about how sexy he was, I mean objectively speaking Jeffrey was sexy, but all could think about was how he was defiling my mother’s crystal. 

He put down the glass and got on his knees between my legs. 

I guess this is happening, I sighed to myself.

He yanked off my belt and undid my pants. Without hesitation he took me into his mouth. His hands smoothed over my thighs as he licked and sucked coquettishly. My body didn’t respond. He stared up at me beneath his long gold lashes, wounded. He was trying and he was very skilled and very very pretty but I just couldn’t relax. I couldn’t get past what he said about Harry. 

Harry. 

I shut my eyes and pictured Harry at fifteen sprawled on my bed, his curls mussed from sleep, Harry with rivulets of water down his naked back in the showers, Harry’s messy hot kisses in the rafters. I pictured Harry now, his sweaty, tattooed body in the studio, the way he swept his long hair into a messy bun, the steely look he gave me as he landed a jump, his wet mouth open and panting as I straddled him and pinned his wrists to the ground, the grunts he made as he struggled helplessly against my weight…

I thrust into Jeffrey’s mouth and came with a cry. 

Jeffrey’s lips twitched in surprise. He happily drew out every last drop of come before pulling off and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You certainly enjoyed that,” he chuckled, confidently. 

I gasped for air, my head lolling on the back of the couch.

Jeffrey eyed me expectantly. 

“Oh right.” Where were my manners? I kneeled down in front of him and undid his pants. He took his shirt off. That seemed unnecessary, but okay. 

He had a nice body. He would be any guy’s dream--tall, blonde, fit, cute--I didn’t know why I wasn’t more attracted to him. 

I wrapped my mouth around his length and moved mechanically up and down. He made a whole lot of noise. He might have liked what I was doing or he might have been showboating. 

Guiltily, I shut my eyes and pictured Harry again. I wondered what Harry tasted like, what he felt like. He was big, I knew that. He would probably like it really rough. I moved faster and rougher on Jeffrey, tugging at the base of his c0ck, sliding my mouth over his shaft with gusto. Then I changed my mind. No, I thought, that was all an act, bravado. Harry probably liked it really tender and sweet. He wanted to be spoiled. I changed course and lay wet, breathy kisses up and down Jeffrey’s shaft before opening my mouth to lick his slit and suck ever so softly on his sensitive head. He bit down on a pillow to muffle his scream as he came.

“Louis,” he groaned, as I dabbed the corners of my mouth with a tissue. “That was amazing. I had no idea you… felt that way about me.”

He threw his arms around my neck and kissed me passionately. 

“I, uh.” 

I let Jeffrey spend the night. He was exhausted and a little emotional. I mean, I did just give him the blowjob of a lifetime. And at the end of the day he was quite cute and I was certainly not above sharing my bed with a cute boy. 

I handed him a pair of pajama bottoms but he wanted to sleep in his underwear. He spooned me in bed humming the theme to Swan Lake in my ear. I closed my eyes and dreamt of Harry dancing. 

***

The next morning Jeffrey and I went to the opera house together. We picked up lattes on the way. I stepped through the atrium doors caffeinated and sexually satisfied, holding Jeffrey’s hand. We walked downstairs and stopped at the studio door. 

“This is me,” I said. I was rehearsing in Studio B, while he was in Studio A. 

“I miss you already,” he whined. 

“I’ll see you in the auditorium at three. Kenneth is addressing the company.”

“Will you sit with me?” He squeezed my bum.

I laughed. “Okay, I’ll sit with you.”

He kissed me, both hands firmly planted on my ass, when I heard someone clear his throat beside us. 

Harry. 

Jeffrey saw who it was and made a face.

“See you later, Louis.”

“See you!” 

Harry didn’t say anything but brushed past me and entered the studio first. He was wearing black tights and an oversized Calvin Klein sweatshirt, his long hair down over his shoulders. If he were on the streets of London, he’d look like any other elven hipster. Only here in the studio and onstage could he be appreciated for what he really was. 

Harry was his usual combative self during rehearsal, ignoring Maurice’s direction and fighting him tooth and nail, albeit a little quieter this time. 

I stretched my hamstrings as Maurice aided Gigi with a transition she was having trouble with. Shockingly, Harry slid down next to me against the mirror. He gestured to Gigi, “This choreography is a little expected, isn’t it?”

“This choreography is over a hundred years old, so yes it’s expected. People expect to see Swan Lake!” 

“Why do you think we’re still dancing it after all this time?” he argued. “The choreography was passed down through generations by word of mouth, unfixed.”

“We’re doing the 1895 revival. It’s tradition.”

He shook his head. “Each generation is supposed to put their own mark on it. The choreography absorbs a wide range of movement and adapts with the times. Doing what previous generations have done isn’t honoring Swan Lake, it’s insulting it.”

I was impressed and I couldn’t say I totally disagreed with him. “You’re right, but you’re also wrong. It’s Maurice and Kenneth’s vision we’re honoring.”

Harry wrapped his arms around his knees and sulked. “What does your boyfriend think of their vision?”

“Who, Jeffrey?” I asked, amused. If Harry thought Jeffrey was my boyfriend I certainly wasn’t going to dissuade him of this notion. “He thinks Maurice is brilliant.” 

“Of course he does,” Harry scoffed. “How’s your side?” He pointed to the wound he’d made with his bracelet on my ribcage. 

“It’s healing.”

“Did Jeffrey kiss it better?” 

I flushed but was quick to strike back. “No, his mouth was occupied.”

That shut him up, though not for long.

“So, am I the only guy in the company you haven’t fucked?”

“Why, you interested?”

“In your dreams, Tomlinson.”

I had dreamt about it.

“I saw your Jeffrey in rehearsal yesterday,” Harry yawned. “I was underwhelmed by his footwork.” 

“You should see what he can do on his knees.” 

Harry’s features remained impassive. 

“Have you got your eye on anyone in the company?” I needled. 

“I don’t shit where I eat.”

“Charming.”

Maurice interrupted us. Not privy to the content of on conversation he was just pleased to see we weren’t strangling each other. He patted our heads with approval. “Good boys!” 

***

Later that afternoon, I hit the auditorium. I wandered up and down the aisles looking for Jeffrey but I couldn’t find him.

I ran into Niall who was teetering under a stack of sheet music, his black-framed glasses on the tip of his nose. 

“Hey, have you seen Jeffrey—that blonde American bloke?”

“Nope, haven’t seen him. Hey, sit with me in the back we can watch the Man U game on my iPad.”

I rubbed my hands together mischievously. “Let’s do it.” 

The speech was mostly about administrative matters, but Kenneth also introduced the costume designer who said there would be a sign up sheet to arrange a time for our fittings. Lastly, Kenneth excitedly announced that there would be a party held in Harry’s honor at the end of the month. He was a feather in the cap of the company. Patrons and the who’s who of London were all invited and we were all expected to be in attendance. 

I groaned and Harry shot me a nasty look from across the aisle.

After the speech, I continued to look for Jeffrey. It was really weird of him to miss this. When I finally left the auditorium, I found Jeffrey slumped outside the doors in tears. 

“I’ve been dropped from the production!”

“What?” I grabbed his arm and led him into the washroom. “What happened?”

He got reams of toilet paper from the stall and blew his nose. “Kenneth pulled me out of rehearsal today and told me I’ve been swapped out and an alternate will be dancing my part instead.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

“Kenneth made some excuse about my height and needing someone shorter to complete Maurice’s vision. But Maurice loves me! He never mentioned anything about my height before. I don’t understand it!”

Even I thought this was odd. Decisions like these were not made weeks into rehearsal. 

“I’ll talk to him.” 

We stepped into the hallway, Jeffrey sobbing on my shoulder. Just as we were turning the corner, Harry walked past and flashed me a smile.

I stormed into Kenneth’s office without knocking. He and Liam were going over the schedule. 

“Why isn’t Jeffrey dancing in Swan Lake? What the fuck is going on?”

Liam seemed surprised by this news. He glanced at Kenneth. Kenneth had to manage so many haughty dancers he was perpetually exhausted, especially when it came to me and my hysterics. He rubbed his tired eyes. “It wasn’t anything personal…”

“It was Harry wasn’t it?”

“The alternate was a better fit. Jeffrey will dance in Giselle in the spring.”

“What did Harry tell you? Do you just do everything he says?”

Liam put his hand up. “Louis, stop.”

“No! Kenneth, first you give him Zayn’s rightful position in the company, then you let him rehearse alone whenever he feels like it and fight Maurice, and now he has the authority to remove a dancer from a production? This is nuts!”

“Don’t go around starting false rumors. The decision had nothing to do with Harry.” He avoided my eyes when he said it. 

I left the office and slammed the door behind me. Harry was in the hallway leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

I stormed up to him and got right in his face. “I don’t know why you hate me so much, but take it out on me not Jeffrey or anyone else, got it?”

I walked away and heard him protest softly, “I don’t hate you.”


	10. Chapter 10

HARRY / PAST

 

I packed a small duffel bag for my trip to Paris: passport, itinerary, toiletries, socks, underwear, a light jacket, two pairs of slacks, a pair of jeans, two button-downs, two t-shirts, a cardigan and a suit for the ballet. 

I would have three whole days to sightsee. Zayn lent me his DSLR camera and taught me how to use it. “I’ll help you edit the images when you get back. If you take any good ones we can print them and hang them up in our room.” 

Zayn’s sketches hung all over the walls of the dorm along with Louis’ posters of footballers and dancers. I hoped I got some good shots so I'd have something of my own to put up. 

Eleanor lent me a dog-eared guidebook, annotated with all the clubs and bars that didn’t ID. 

Gigi lent me one of her flowy silk scarves that she swore all the men in Paris wore. 

Louis claimed he wasn’t mad at me, though he hadn’t said much until the day of the trip. 

“Here,” he said, dropping a pair of gold cufflinks into my palm. “My grandfather gave them to me when I got into RBS. You should wear them to the show.”

I gripped them tightly. “I’ll miss you.”

“No you won’t. You’re going to have the time of your life.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.”

“You’re going to meet all sorts of important people. You won’t be the same when you get back.”

“Yes I will!” I couldn’t imagine any three-day trip changing me that much and even if it did, it still wouldn’t change the way I felt about Louis.

“When Beauchamp took Hans Faust to Paris his picture was in the society pages and he stopped talking to all his school friends.”

I looked down at my scuffed sneakers and the khaki pants that hung off my waist. “Uh, I don’t think I’ll be making the society pages anytime soon. You don’t have to worry about that.”

I hugged Louis goodbye. He pressed his forehead to my shoulder and stood limply in my arms. 

Outside, I met Beauchamp who was waiting for me along with the school’s driver. 

Louis was watching us in the window. 

I waved.

***

I’d only been on a plane once, on a family trip to Spain. I’d never travelled alone, or without my mum. I felt very grown up standing in line at Heathrow with my passport. I was responsible for my own documents and luggage and everything. 

Beauchamp kept to himself mostly. While we were sitting in the gate waiting to board he bought me a sandwich and a computer magazine. It was weird that there were magazines about computers. Don’t people just go online to read about computers? But Beauchamp was around before computers were invented so I suppose it made sense to him. It was nice of him to buy something he thought I might like.

The flight was short but it was already late in Paris, so we headed straight to Beauchamp’s apartment for the evening. 

All of the buildings in Paris looked like they belonged on a postcard. Even the ugly buildings were pretty. I wanted to start taking pictures straight away but it was too dark out.

I had my nose in Eleanor’s guidebook trying to figure out what I wanted to see the next day when Beauchamp lifted my chin and pointed outside. There was a giant billboard for Swan Lake, a stunning picture of his wife as the white swan. Louis’ words: you won’t be the same when you come back started to take on new meaning. I was going to stay with this famous dancer whose face was on a billboard in the center of Paris. I flushed with pride. 

Beauchamp’s building had one of those tiny elevators with a metal cage that you only see in old movies. I crammed inside with him and he grinned when I asked if I could close the grate behind us. 

The building must have been hundreds of years old, with crown moldings, vaulted ceilings and intricate brass latticework running through the marble floors and walls. 

When we got to his apartment door I straightened my jacket to look presentable for Irina. If the lobby looked so grand and beautiful, I could only imagine what their apartment looked like.

But when he opened the door there was only one room. 

And one bed.

He entered the room and I walked tentatively behind him. I glanced around the space to see if I was missing something. I wasn’t. In addition to this room there was just a tiny bathroom. 

“Is your wife coming home soon?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said dismissively, checking the messages on his phone. “She’s staying at our other apartment.”

Other apartment? Did he want me to stay in this apartment alone, I wondered. Maybe he and his wife didn’t want to be disturbed. I was disappointed but it was understandable. 

However, Beauchamp began to unpack his suitcase and hang his shirts up in the wardrobe. “It’s late. We should go to bed so you can get up bright and early to go sightseeing.”

I shifted uncomfortably by the door then opened my duffel bag. I hadn’t packed any pajamas. I took the small bag with my toiletries and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I brushed my teeth and flossed and washed my face. The fluorescent light above the mirror buzzed and flickered like a dying firefly. I heard the sheets rustling in the next room. I sat on the edge of the tub for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, toeing the cool white tile. 

Quietly, I unlocked the bathroom door and turned the tarnished brass knob. The room was dark so I had to feel my way around. When my eyes adjusted, I could see that Beauchamp was still awake. His hands were behind his head and his glasses on the nightstand. His face looked naked without them. He wasn’t wearing any clothes, or at least none that I could see since he was under the covers. His grey hair looked like quicksilver in the moonlight. I could tell that he had been a dancer. His muscles looked painfully sharp and hard from decades of strain and overuse, retaining none of the softness of youth. 

I picked up pillow next to him. “I’ll take the floor.”

“There’s mice,” he said. “Get in bed.” 

Still wearing my t-shirt and trousers I got in bed next to him and stared up at the ceiling. 

“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” he said. This wasn’t a question, but a sharp order like the orders he gave in the studio. 

I pulled off my shirt and lay back down, stiff as a board. 

“Your pants too.”

I don’t know why I took them off. A part of me thought leaving them on would be rude, like I was implying he might try something. He was such an important man and he had been so kind to me by bringing me on this trip, I was terrified of insulting him. 

I took off my pants.

I tried very hard to ignore him and fall asleep but whenever I glanced in his direction I could see that his eyes were still wide open. 

I turned away from him and curled into a ball. That’s when it started. He began to rub my back. His fingers trailed down my spine with the sickening slowness of a centipede. 

“You’re such a sweet boy, Harry. I’m glad I brought you on this trip. I made the right choice.”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “You’re happy I picked you, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said in a tiny voice, half muffled by the pillow. 

His fingers wandered down to the waistband of my underwear and I flinched violently. 

“Hey,” he said, “Calm down. You like boys don’t you?”

Yes, I like boys, boys my own age! I screamed inside my head. Beauchamp was as old as my father. 

“It’s okay to like boys,” he said.

“I know that.” I tried to think of how an adult might navigate this situation. “I’m not in the mood.”

Beauchamp’s hand moved over my bare stomach. “I can fix that.” 

I didn’t know what to do. It was the middle of the night. I was a kid alone in a strange city with only a bit of pocket money. I lay there gripping the edge of the bed thinking this couldn’t be happening to me. 

When he touched me again, in a more intimate place, I made my last plea: “I’ve never done it.”

I was too young to know that this wouldn’t stop him, that he probably already knew and it was exactly why he wanted me. 

“That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll teach you.”

***

I don’t think I slept that night, or if I did I dreamt of nothing but that dark room. 

When I woke up the next morning my body hurt in the most humiliating way imaginable. I wanted to tear my flesh from my bones. I wanted to not be me.

I got in the shower and stood there unmoving as the scalding water fell over my head and shoulders. The night replayed in my head over and over like images in a flipbook. 

Why didn’t I leave when I saw that we were sharing a room? Why didn’t I call my mum? Why did I take my pants off? Why didn’t I just sleep on the floor with the mice? Why? Why? Why?

I stepped into the room with a towel around my waist. Beauchamp was still undressed. 

I padded over to my suitcase and frantically fished out my clothes when he came up behind me and placed a hand on my back. His fingers skimmed down to my waist and the towel dropped to the floor. This was when the reality of my situation began to sink in. I wouldn’t be doing any sightseeing on this trip. I wasn’t here because I was a promising student. I was here because of the things Beauchamp wanted to do to me. That was all. That was the only reason.

How could I have been stupid enough to think that I was a special dancer? I wasn’t special. I was a charity case from Cheshire and the worst student in school. I was nothing. I was less than nothing, and now I was disgusting too. The things I did to him, the things he did to me… I hated him but I hated myself more. I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t fight, bite, kick or scream. I was weak. I let it happen. 

And over the course of the trip I let it happen again and again and again. Each time there was less point of fighting. What was I fighting for anyways? Did I even have the right to say no when I gave in the first night? Who was I to say no? I was a nobody. It was better to just get through it, I reasoned. I just had to do whatever he asked and think about something else or let my mind go blank and not think of anything at all.

But by the second night I was so tired and my body hurt so bad I couldn’t do it anymore. When Beauchamp was outside making a call I picked up the prescription sleeping pills on his dresser. If I were asleep he might let me be, at least until morning. The dosage was two tablets and I took three to make sure I would be completely knocked out. I popped the pills into my mouth—so desperate for a way out of my situation I barely gave it a second thought. 

The pills worked mercifully fast. I lay down and fell into a deep, deliciously obliterating sleep. 

I woke up what felt like hours later, groggy and disoriented, to Beauchamp shaking me. “How many did you take!” he yelled.

“Three.” My mouth barely wrapped around the word. All of my muscles felt like sludge.

He slapped me across the face. “Are you stupid? Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

“No!” I cried. “I’m sorry, Sir, I just wanted to sleep.”

“It’s so bad having sex with me that you want to be unconscious, is that it?” he raged. “You think I’m ugly?”

“No!” I said quickly, cowering at the head of the bed. “It’s not that at all!”

Beauchamp’s face contorted into one of remorse. “I’m sorry, Harry.” He took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have hit you. That was wrong of me. Come here.”

I didn’t move, so he sidled up next to me and pulled me into a hug. “You should have told me you wanted to sleep. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. I care about you. Do you care about me?”

I nodded drowsily. The drugs hadn’t worn off yet and it felt like I was swimming in sand. 

I couldn’t hold my head up so he cradled me. “I hate fighting. Let’s make up, shall we?” His hungry lips pressed against my numb ones. 

That night was the worst of all. It was bad enough before but now I was awake and paralyzed in my own body because of the drugs. It went on forever, until I didn’t even remember who or what I was anymore, until I felt like an animal, howling.

*** 

On our last day in Paris he told me to get dressed for the ballet. I should have been relieved that the trip was almost over, but I was afraid. I was leaving the room a completely different person than when I’d entered it. I was sure everyone would know what had happened to me. I was marked.

I went into my duffel bag and saw the camera and the guidebook and scarf. What would I tell everyone? They would expect to see pictures, to hear about the places I’d seen and the things that I had done. I felt sorry for my former self. The self that was excited to go to Paris, the self that still thought I was lucky and special. But I hated that self too. Stupid, I thought. I was so, so stupid.

I put on my suit and covered my face with shame at the sight of Louis’ cufflinks. I was so embarrassed by what had happened to me. How could I ever face Louis again? I put the cufflinks back in my bag. 

At the theatre, Beauchamp kept pointing out famous dancers and choreographers but I could barely remember anyone. All the faces blurred together. He introduced me to people in French and I nodded along like I understood what they were saying. He acted like nothing had happened. He treated me like he did in class or on the plane, like everything was normal.

We walked down to the belly of the theatre where the dressing rooms were. He entered one of the rooms without knocking. Inside was Irina. His wife. She was in costume and was the most exotic creature I’d ever seen. She had ebony hair coiled in a tight bun beneath a crown of white feathers. Her tutu was like spun glass and her bodice was encrusted with so many crystals it looked like armor. 

She stretched her long neck and Beauchamp kissed her cheek, though his lips never made contact with her porcelain skin. 

They talked business: the preview, reviews, her profile in L'Express. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, based on ambition and mutual self-interest. If Beauchamp was the cunning mind in this partnership, Irina was its ice-cold heart.

She looked me up and down and arched an eyebrow, her wide grey eyes made more feline by the thick stage makeup. “Alex, I can’t believe you brought one of your… boys down here. What were you thinking?”

She knew. Mortified, I fidgeted with the hem of my jacket. 

“Darling, I promised him he could meet you. What was I supposed to do?” 

Shakily I extended my hand. 

She recoiled, insulted by my very existence. “You better get to your seats.”

When we sat down to watch the show, all I could think about was how much I hated ballet. I didn’t want to see Swan Lake, I wanted to quit ballet school and go back to Cheshire and never so much as think about ballet ever again. 

But when the curtains rose and the ballet started, I was transfixed. I didn’t see Irina up there, I saw myself, my suffering made manifest.

The music swelled and I was carried away, convinced of its power. When the swan queen Odette was dragged away from Prince Siegfried by the sorcerer Von Rothbart in the second act, I was in agony for her. I clutched the armrest when Siegfried was tricked by Von Rothbart into marrying his daughter Odile, and then again when he realizes his mistake and its devastating consequences. In the fourth act, when Siegfried chooses to die alongside Odette, I wept. Tears streamed down my face and I sobbed into my sleeve uncontrollably. 

A woman sitting next to us turned and looked at me, touched at my emotion. “Quelle belle enfant!” she exclaimed, and in broken English, “I have never seen a boy so moved by the ballet. It is very beautiful.”

Beauchamp smiled proudly and put an arm around me. “It’s his first time.”

***

I couldn’t go back to Louis’ room. I told Beauchamp and the driver to take me not to Jebsen House, but to Wolf House. As I was getting out of the car Beauchamp kissed me on the mouth, right in front of the driver. This wasn’t affection, it was a threat, it was him saying, see, I can do this in front of anyone. If you tell, no one will care. 

Thankfully, my room at Wolf House was empty. My roommate must have gone out. I curled up on the bed fully dressed. I’d been at school for a whole semester and hadn’t slept in this bed once. It didn’t even have sheets. 

Starved for sleep, I slept through the whole afternoon and through the night. 

When I woke up the next day, Louis was beside me. It was Monday. I’d missed my morning classes.

“What are you doing here?” he said worriedly. “Why didn’t you come home last night?”

Home.

“I’m sick. I got sick in Paris.”

“Come back to Jebsen. I’ll look after you.” He pressed a hand to my forehead. 

I rolled away from him. “I don’t want to get you sick too.”

“I don’t care. I miss you too much. I want to hear all about your trip.”

I squeezed my eyes tight to still my tears. “Just go.”

Louis left but only for a few hours. When the school day was done, he came rushing back into the room with croissants and a café au lait. 

“Bonjour mon ami!” He laid the croissants down next to my head. “French delicacies from our humble cafeteria. I bet the food you had in Paris was a hundred times better.”

I hadn’t eaten in three days. Beauchamp tried to feed me at his apartment but I wasn’t hungry. 

I took a bite and then another, feeling nourished for the first time in ages. I slurped the café au lait and lay back down. 

“I’m sorry I was so moody about Beauchamp picking you,” Louis said stroking my hair. “Do you forgive me?”

Hearing him say that name was like a knife in the gut. I wanted to tell Louis the truth but how could I tell him about all the disgusting things that were done to me without him thinking I was disgusting? Even if he didn’t want to think it, he would never look at me the same way again. Or worse, what if he didn’t believe me? Then I thought back to Irina, and the driver. What if Louis thought I liked it? 

“I forgive you,” I said. 

I refused to go back to Jebsen House that night but Louis refused to leave me. I began to drift off to sleep again and he draped an arm around me. 

It reminded me of when an animal dies and its mate refuses to leave the body. I was dead inside but Louis didn’t know it yet.

***

The next day in rehearsal Beauchamp came up behind me and slipped his umbrella between my legs, roughly knocking them apart. “I said second position, Harry. Pay attention.” 

I ran out of the studio and threw up in the boys’ washroom. I vowed then and there that I would never let him touch me again.

From that moment on I got to the studio early and I left late, rehearsing alone every single day. I would rehearse and perfect my technique every chance I got, even during lunch, much to Louis’ dismay. 

Sometimes I stayed in the studio so late I’d sleep there and wake up at dawn and start rehearsing alone all over again. 

I was in the nurse’s office constantly with inflammation in my tendons, sprains, stress fractures and jumper’s knee. 

After weeks of this punishing routine, I rarely made a mistake in front of Beauchamp during rehearsal, and when I did, and he came to correct me, I balled my hands into fists until my palms bled. 

I hated dancing his choreography. It was like dancing inside a cage.


	11. Chapter 11

LOUIS / PRESENT

 

The party for Harry would be held in the atrium of the Royal Opera House. Anyone who was anyone would be there, including noted politicians and members of the royal family. 

I was trying not to be jealous but it was hard when Harry’s face was splashed all over the arts section of every fucking newspaper in London, with headings like, “He May Not Be Playing Prince Siegfried but Harry Styles is the Prince of Our Hearts.” 

Kill me.

I met up with Niall at the pub before the party. I was already half in the bag. I needed to sober up so I could get drunk again later. 

He rushed in and pulled up a stool. “Sorry I’m late. I had an extra meeting with the orchestra tacked onto my day.”

He set down his briefcase and called the waitress over. 

I fingered the felt coaster and set down my empty glass. “What was the meeting about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Niall cleaned his glasses on his shirt.

He was acting unusually discreet. Normally he loved swapping anecdotes about work.

“Spill.”

He eyed me guiltily. “Oh alright. Harry asked me to introduce him to the orchestra.”

“What?” This was unheard of. A music director would never formally introduce a dancer to the orchestra, the choreographer maybe, but never a dancer. 

I got my back up. “What could he possibly have to say to the orchestra?”

“He had few ideas about tempo.”

I almost fell out of my chair. “And you didn’t throw him out?”

“It’s completely unorthodox, but Harry had some interesting things to say. He has a profound understanding of the libretto.”

Had the entire city gone mad? I thought Niall, the steely pragmatist, would see Harry for the overrated prima donna he was, but even he had Harry fever.

“Niall, are you hearing yourself right now?”

“I was surprised too. You should have seen him have a go at the concertmaster. It got fuckin’ ugly, mate. The weird part was, Harry was right.”

Two words I didn’t like hearing together: “Harry” and “right.”

I flagged the waitress and ordered another pint. “What is there to discuss? I mean the score is over a hundred years old. It is what it is.” 

“Actually--and Harry brought this up during the meeting--Tchaikovsky’s handwritten score is lost. Most ballet companies use Riccardo Drigo’s revised score from the 1895 revival, not the score from the original 1877 production.”

“Does Saint Harry have the original score? Did Tchaikovsky’s ghost come to him in a dream?”

Niall laughed. “Harry knows as much about the original score as the rest of us. But he is familiar with the letters Tchaikovsky wrote in 1875 to Sergei Taneyev while he was composing. Harry studied the letters in their original Russian.”

“Ugh, of course he did… Unless the score is in those letters I don’t see the point.”

He swished his beer around in his glass and brought it to his lips. “He sees the letters as an emotional map to unlocking the ballet.”

I kept waiting for Niall to say something that wasn’t just a bunch of new age nonsense. 

“Niall, aren’t we just avoiding the truth that’s staring us right in the face. Harry is a control freak! He wants to control every aspect of the ballet, from the choreography to the orchestra to casting, and we’re letting him!” 

“Harry’s in good company. Tchaikovsky was the exact same way. He knew every instrument in the orchestra inside and out, knew what notes sounded best on each instrument. The best note on the obo at that time was F sharp—that what gives Swan Lake’s theme its poignancy.” 

“You’re forgetting one thing. Harry is not Tchaikovsky!”

“Tchaikovsky’s contemporaries didn’t think he was a genius either. Swan Lake was a flop.”

I got the point, but I still thought Harry was pulling the wool over our eyes. Moreover, Harry would never be the misunderstood genius to me. He would always be the scared kid who didn’t know the difference between Nijinsky and Nureyev. When I met him he would be happy to make it through one ballet class without getting expelled, now he wasn’t even content to be a principal dancer, he had to run the entire Royal Ballet!

*** 

In all my time with the company I had never seen a spectacle like the one they put on for Harry’s party. 

The atrium was transformed into the enchanted forest from Swan Lake. Hundreds of willow trees were brought in, along with a ceiling of wisteria, beds of live moss, and fountains filled with lily pads and tea lights. The caterer for the royal family was hired, as was the full orchestra, lending an air of ceremony to the evening. I wasn’t sure if I was at a party or a coronation. 

Harry was wearing another one of his wildly inappropriate Gucci suits. The floral pattern blended seamlessly with the party’s woodland decor. As soon as he entered the atrium the place went silent and he was guided to the center for a special presentation, a gift from the students of the Royal Ballet School. 

Dozens of apple-cheeked little girls dressed in Swan Lake’s signature white tutus lined up before him. Each girl carried a single white rose and one by one they curtseyed and placed a rose in Harry’s hands. His face remained stony, unimpressed by this display of reverence. The very last girl held a black ribbon to tie all the flowers together into a bouquet. Her tiny hands shook as she approached Harry. Carefully, she looped the ribbon around the stems, but her hands were trembling so bad she was unable to tie a bow. Harry’s expression softened. “Don’t be frightened.” He kneeled down and helped her. 

They literally rolled out the red carpet for him. (I should know. I tripped on it twice.) Harry strolled down the carpet, greeting his esteemed guests with dutiful politeness. Liam guided him by the small of his back. “Who’s next?” Harry would whisper, and Liam would point to the next socialite or cabinet member dying to shake his hand. After making his way through the throng of guests, Harry was escorted by Liam to the head of the verdant archway atop a riser with a small podium. He was about to make a speech.

Liam handed him a flute of champagne and a microphone.

I glided up to Zayn. He was in awe of everything. “This is unreal,” he said, leaning on the bar, a cocktail in one hand and caviar in the other. 

“Some might call it a bit much.”

“Some might call you jealous.”

I frowned.

Harry cleared his throat. I kept chatting with Zayn but stopped when I got dirty looks from the people around me who were trying to listen to Harry. 

“I’d like to begin by thanking the man who brought me here, Kenneth O’Hare, our artistic director and fearless leader.”

I sneered. Kenneth wasn’t leading any of us. Harry had him under his thumb.

“I’d like to call up two of my castmates and dearest friends from school… Gigi Hadid and Eleanor Calder.” 

The girls walked up onto the riser and stood on either side of him, both in beaded mini dresses that showed off their long, coltish legs. Gigi wore her blonde hair up in an austere twist, while Eleanor’s dark hair fell down her back like a velvet curtain. 

“My white swan and my black swan,” he said, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek. Then he regaled the crowd with tales of them torturing him in school—dolling him up in their tutus and makeup. “The first time I partnered with Gigi I dropped her fifty-one times!” 

The crowd erupted with laughter. They were eating this up. 

“I’d like to thank Zayn Malik for introducing me to books, music and art I never would have discovered on my own and for his creative guidance over the years.” 

Zayn put a hand over his heart.

“Oh please,” I hissed.

“I’d like to thank Niall Horan for his generous spirit and his friendship.”

What friendship? They’d only met a few weeks ago.

He thanked the corps de ballet for their “tireless effort.” He thanked the Madame Lesauvage and the Royal Ballet School, “for taking a chance on a clueless kid from Cheshire.” He thanked the administration, he thanked the patrons, he thanked Princess Anne and her daughter Zara, and he thanked his former colleagues at the Bolshoi. Then he paused. “I have one more person I’d like to thank. A person instrumental in my decision to come back to London. The reason I’m here with you right now.”

I stood up straight. 

“Thank you Liam Payne, our assistant director.” He motioned for Liam to join him. “I wasn’t friends with Liam in school. He was the best dancer at the academy and I was too intimidated! But he was a constant source of inspiration. He’s made me feel so welcome here.”

Foolishly, I waited for Harry to thank me, to include my name, even if it was just in a list among other names. But he didn’t. The speech was over.

A waiter skated by with a bottle of champagne and tray of glasses. I nicked the bottle and a glass.

As soon as Harry’s speech was over, the orchestra started up and people took to the dance floor. Zayn left me to dance with Gigi. Eleanor was dancing in a circle with the little girls from RBS, and Liam and Niall were deep in conversation about administrative matters. I wished Jeffrey were here but he was at home licking his wounds after being let go from the production. 

Harry was completely surrounded. Princess Anne, the Queen’s daughter, linked an arm through his and together they navigated the crowd of eager guests all clamoring to get a piece of him. I remembered when Prince Andrew came to the ballet during our run of Romeo & Juliet. He never asked to meet me but it was the highlight of my year. Harry had a high-ranking member of the royal family here for him and him alone, hanging on his every word and he seemed totally unfazed. 

I needed to get out of there. 

I moved through the atrium, the stupid tree branches slapping my face at every turn. It was impossible to get anywhere in this crowd. There were so many people, all of them with Harry’s name on their lips. Harry, Harry, Harry. The sound of his name carried in the air like the rustling of the trees.

Once out of the atrium, I found myself at the door of the auditorium. I thought it would be locked, but it was open. I slipped inside and the door slammed behind me, shutting out the sounds of the party so that I felt completely alone. 

The auditorium looked smaller when there was no one in it. But I felt big. I skipped down the soft carpet aisle and climbed up on stage. Since nobody had any plans to celebrate me I had to celebrate myself. I untwisted and popped the cork, champagne foam pouring out all over my hand and down my arm. I poured a glass and toasted myself. “To me!” I threw it back and poured another. This wasn’t so bad. I didn’t need a whole room full of people worshipping me. All I needed was the stage and good glass of champagne. 

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall figure move in the shadowed wing of the stage. 

“What are you doing?” a voice boomed.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

It was Harry. 

“What am I doing? What are you doing sneaking up on me like that? You’re like the Phantom of the Opera!”

Harry was no longer wearing his suit. His hair was tied back and he was in sweats and a fitted white t-shirt. 

“Why aren’t you at your party?”

“I need to rehearse.”

How ungrateful could one person be? This party cost the company a fortune. There was literally royalty out there falling at his feet. 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit rude?”

He paced the length of the stage and began to stretch. “No, I don’t. They came to my party because they love my dancing. They love my dancing because I rehearse. Now leave.”

I hugged the champagne bottle. “I was here first! You leave!”

“You’re not doing anything!”

“Yes I am!” I poured myself another glass and took a sip. “See.”

“Louis.” He crossed his arms. 

I leaned back on one elbow. “Great speech by the way. I loved it. Though, I think you forgot to thank a few people: the waiters, the janitor, the girl who delivers bagels in the morning, I mean there were some serious omissions. Quite embarrassing really.” 

He tried to dance around me but I kept moving making it impossible. 

He stopped, exasperated. 

“Why didn’t you thank me, Harry?” I said, looking into my glass with a tipsy sadness. 

“I didn’t know what to say… Louis, I’m trying to work. Please go.”

“I’ll go if you give me a thank you speech.”

Harry pursed his lips, wrestling internally with this proposition. “No.”

“Oh, come on! You thanked every single person in the company except me! Don’t you have at least one nice thing you can say about me?”

“Thank you for shooting me with a crossbow.”

“You’re welcome. Keep going. I want a thank you speech, not a thank you sentence.” 

He sighed and plucked the flute of champagne from my hands. I lay back, my legs crossed at the ankle, soaking in the attention like sunshine. 

“Louis, thank you for teaching me to keep my back straight and my chin up doing a grand plié. Thank you for sharing your dorm room with me. Thank you for being my friend when no one else would. Thank you for being my first kiss and my first… crush.” His cheeks turned pink. 

“Harry.”

“I gave you your thank you speech, now go,” he ordered, pointing to the exit, stage right. 

How could I leave after that? I got up and faced him. “You were my first crush too.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“It’s true!” Oh my god, I adored him! He had to know that. How could he not? 

I undid my tie and rolled up my sleeves. “Let me rehearse with you.”

He tensed. “I prefer to rehearse alone.”

“Yeah, yeah, you have your process. But we’re going to be dancing on this stage together eventually, so you may as well get used to it. Let’s rehearse one of our scenes together. How about Act Four?”

I kicked off my shoes and stood in socked feet. 

“You don’t have your slippers. You’ll break your neck.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I grinned. “Then you’d get to play Siegfried.”

Harry drew his t-shirt off over his head. “You and I both know that part would be mine if I wanted it. I don’t.” 

“Why? Is the part too demanding?” I said primly.

“No, it’s too dull.”

The scene we were rehearsing was a battle. I pushed and pulled and threw him to the ground. My movements were constricted somewhat by my clothes, but Harry was lithe and liquid, half naked with a sheen of sweat. His large warm hands clasped mine and he swung me into a series of dizzying pirouettes. We circled the stage and attacked with leaps and strides, figuratively trying to kill each other. 

As usual, Harry’s count was off. 

“You’re supposed to be fighting me, Harry, not the choreography!”

“Can’t I do both?” he called, his long tattooed arms sweeping past me. 

“You’re fucking up my count!”

“So follow mine.”

I followed him and it felt disorienting. The count was the like the foundation of a house, without it everything else felt like it was on the verge of collapse. Harry thrived on this instability. I lost track of where I was and Harry snuck up behind me, one arm locked around my waist, the other across my neck. 

“I think I just killed poor Siegfried,” he breathed in my ear. 

I fell back against his chest in surrender. “Well, he has to die anyway.” 

He released me and got a drink of water. I took a swig of champagne straight from the bottle.

“Nice,” he said. “I can see you’re taking this rehearsal very seriously.”

“Oh, of course.” 

He got ready to start from the beginning of the scene but I blindsided him with something completely different. Harry recognized the spritely jumps immediately. 

A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

He covered his mouth to hide his smile. I made him smile! I couldn’t believe it.

I remembered our old routine like it was yesterday and to my delight, so did Harry. Gamely, he opened his arms and launched into the slow lovelorn movements of Lysander. My sweet Lysander!

We used the whole stage, crisscrossing and spinning around each other. It was completely different than dancing Swan Lake, lighter, freer, comedy instead of tragedy, the rhythm so familiar it didn’t even feel like dancing, it simply felt like us: me and Harry. 

“Wait,” I said, thinking back to our winter showcase. “Let’s do Beauchamp’s choreography.” 

I walked to the center of the stage and performed half of the meticulously blocked pas de deux, extending my arm and waiting for him to perform the other half. 

Harry’s expression hardened. “I need to work now. No more messing around.”

“Oh, come on, we’re actually having fun for once.” I took his hand and he snatched it back, furious. 

“This isn’t a joke to me!”

“Christ, Harry.” What was wrong with him? “You have plenty of time to rehearse. Live a little.” 

He faced forward, gazing at the empty seats in the auditorium as though it were a packed house. “That’s why they’ll never throw parties in your honor, Louis. You’re good but you have no idea what it takes to be great. You don’t know the meaning of sacrifice.”

My body went cold.

“If you won’t leave, I’ll go to the studio.”

“I’ll leave,” I snapped, putting my shoes and tie back on. “You know what, Harry? You might be the world’s best dancer but you’re a really shitty friend.”

“Lock the door on your way out,” was all he said in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week’s “past” chapter is a major turning point in the plot. I’ve been DYING to get to this twist. I hope you’re surprised by what happens.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some upsetting content.

HARRY / PAST

 

Nothing was the same after Paris. Even when I wasn’t thinking about what had happened, it was there, in my bones. I was a different person, a different animal. It had altered my DNA.

I never kissed Louis again. He wanted to but I always had some excuse why we shouldn’t. At first I pretended I was sick, then when I was clearly depressed I told him I was homesick, then I just avoided him altogether. I left the dorm before he woke up in the morning and snuck back in after he’d already fallen asleep at night. 

He was hanging out with the Zayn and Liam more and more. I didn’t feel comfortable around guys, even guys my own age, so I spent a lot of time with Gigi and Eleanor. They knew intuitively that something had happened to me but they didn’t push me to tell them. They listened when I told them how I was feeling, but most of the time they let me sit in their room and not speak at all. Gigi was very driven and would partner with me after class if I needed her to, and Eleanor had a car and drove me to my doctor’s appointment at the free clinic, no questions asked.

The tests came back negative, thank God, but I hated myself for even having to take them. I had unprotected sex with a grown man. I was so dirty and disgusting. Who would ever want to be with a guy like me? Certainly not someone good, like Louis. 

Rehearsal for the winter showcase was the hardest part of my day. I had to be around Louis, who I cared about more than anything, and Beauchamp, who I hated more than anything. 

Even though I had completely shut him out for weeks, Louis was always there for me no matter what. He absolutely refused to give up on me. He saved me a spot at the barre every single day, brought me water and a towel. 

My injury flared up again and he ran all the way across campus to the nurse’s office to get an ice pack and medical wrap, and ran all the way back. 

“I can do it,” I said as he fussed over me.

“I want to.” 

He wrapped my knee, tenderly holding my calf still. I had a really bad case of jumper’s knee. I had to miss a week of class and rehearsal to recover. I still wasn’t a hundred percent. 

“What are you doing to yourself?” he scolded. “You can’t put in the hours you do and expect your body to heal. You need to take it easy.”

He placed the ice pack on top of my knee and I groaned with relief as pain gave way to numbness.

“I can handle it.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. Overworking your body isn’t going to make you a stronger dancer. It’s only going to hurt you in the long run. And anyway, there are more important things than dancing,” he said quietly. 

“Like what?” I stood up and flexed my leg, wincing a little. 

Louis’ cheeks flushed. “Think about it.”

Beauchamp swept into the studio with authority and effortless poise, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder like an old Hollywood movie star: the picture of success. Louis brightened. This was the hardest part of all. Louis still looked up to Beauchamp. He idolized him. It made me sick.

I didn’t know how I would get through rehearsal with a weak knee but I was determined to try. I knew Beauchamp would be waiting for me to fuck up so he could come over and “correct” me, but I danced on my knee like it was fine. I would rather feel my kneecap shatter into a million pieces than feel his hands on me again. 

I landed a jump and pain shot up my leg like lightning. When he wasn’t looking I bent over at the waist and caught my breath. Louis eyed me worriedly.

Oddly, Beauchamp spent most of the rehearsal ignoring me, even when I did make a mistake. Near the end of rehearsal I wasn’t able to put any weight on my knee. I messed up again and again but he just walked right past. I was confused but relieved. 

At the end of rehearsal he had an announcement to make. He slipped on his shark grey suit jacket and crossed his arms. The lines of his face hardened. “It’s with a heavy heart that I announce to you all today that… I’m leaving.” 

The entire room cried out, “No!” 

He smiled modestly, smoothing his silver hair. “It’s true, it’s true, sadly. I’m very sorry. I’ve taken a position with the Kiev Ballet and I fly out on Saturday. I truly wish I could be here for your winter showcase. You’re all immensely talented. It’s been the greatest pleasure getting to know each and every one of you.” I thought I saw his eyes dart over to me. “Your instructors will see you through to opening night. They know the choreography and will pick up where I’ve left off.”

That was it. That was the whole announcement. I breathed a sigh of relief. He was leaving. I didn’t feel happy exactly but for the first time in a long time I felt hope. I wouldn’t have to see him in the halls, in the auditorium, in the studio. I would finally be free. 

Louis was devastated. He clutched the barre dramatically, his head down, his lovely little shoulders caved inward. 

I surprised him by poking his back and asking, “Pizza tonight?”

He turned and raised his eyebrows. “You mean you won’t be eating lettuce and practicing ‘till 3 A.M.?”

“I think I deserve a break.”

“Oh Harry,” Louis took my hand and laced his fingers through mine, “You do.”

As we headed toward the door, Louis ran up to Beauchamp along with the rest of the students to say their goodbyes. One by one they threw their arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving us!” Louis cried, staring up Beauchamp with adoration. “I’ve learned so much working with you, Sir. I’ll never forget it!”

I was the only one who didn’t say goodbye. I slipped on my backpack and walked out.

Normally, I hated it when Louis fawned over Beauchamp, but now that he was leaving, I didn’t care. Nothing could bring me down today. 

Gigi and Eleanor had invited me over to binge watch Pretty Little Liars that night but I stopped by their room to tell them I now had plans with Louis. They were ecstatic for me. 

“You seem well, Harry,” Eleanor beamed, leaning in her doorway. 

“I am!” 

I texted Zayn and told him that Louis and I needed the room for the night. He sent me a winking emoji back. 

I got to the dorm before Louis. I tidied up all the clothes that were splayed out on the floor and dusted and organized the shelves. I looked for movies on his laptop and found about three or four that we both might like. 

I couldn’t remember the last time I actually had something to look forward to. Maybe I wasn’t too fucked up to be with Louis, maybe I could move past what happened to me and be good enough for him. 

Like always, Louis came bounding into the room like a bunny, wild-eyed, and cute as ever. 

“I cleaned!” I said brightly. “Look, I folded the laundry and organized all our books and video games.”

“Great,” he said, hurriedly taking off his backpack and sweater. “You’re not going to believe this, Harry…” He ran over to the closet and started rummaging around, tossing things over his shoulder.

“What?” I said, scrambling to pick up after him. 

“Beauchamp asked me to come with him to Kiev!” Louis squealed.

Every ounce of happiness evaporated from my body in an instant. 

“His assistant doesn’t start for two whole weeks and he said he needs someone to help him get organized. Can you imagine? Me, an assistant choreographer to Alexander Beauchamp! This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me! This is the best day of my life!” 

My throat went dry. 

I could picture the lies curled on Beauchamp’s lips as he dangled this opportunity in front of Louis. He wouldn’t be assisting Beauchamp with choreography in Kiev, just like I never got to go sightseeing in Paris. 

“What did you tell him?”

“I said yes, obviously!” He pulled out a large suitcase from the closet and started packing. “He said I could stay with him at his new apartment. How cool is that?”

“Cool,” I repeated under my breath.

“We can still have pizza tonight, but I want to get to bed early. I have a lot to do tomorrow before the trip.”

Louis must have called every person he’d ever met to tell them the good news. Anyone who knew him knew that he had been a fan of Beauchamp since he was just five years old. He gushed to his mum on the phone for over an hour: “He said I’m the smartest student he’s ever worked with! He said I’m special.”

Beauchamp had told me I was special too. 

We watched the movie on the top bunk, Louis’ laptop resting on our knees. I was like a zombie the whole night. I picked at the toppings on my pizza but couldn’t eat. I had trouble following the movie. Every time Louis asked me what I thought of a scene, I just nodded absentmindedly. He was too excited about the trip to notice how withdrawn I’d become. 

As he grew tired he leaned against me and I watched his contented expression: his long lashes sweeping his dainty cheekbones, the yawn from pale pink lips, the twitch of his nose, the rise and fall of his chest, his gentle heart beating sweetly beneath it. 

***

I woke up earlier than Louis every day and the next morning was no exception. The only difference was I didn’t head to the studio. I went straight to Beauchamp’s office. 

He and Madame Lesavauge shared an office. There were two desks on opposite sides of the cramped, airless, beige room and a wilting houseplant on the windowsill. The door was open so I just walked in, clinging to the straps of my backpack.

Beauchamp was alone packing up his things in a cardboard box. He was formally dressed, in a crisp white shirt and tie, even though he wasn’t working that day. Sunlight gleamed off the gold Rolex on his heavy wrist. His dark eyes slowly met mine. He looked down his long Roman nose at me and pushed up his glasses.

He was surprised to see me. “Hello, Harry. I wasn’t expecting you. Have you come to say goodbye?”

I took a deep breath and braced myself for what I was about to say. “Take me to Kiev instead of Louis.”

I had thought about it all night. There was no other solution. If I told the administration what had happened to me in Paris there was no guarantee that they would do anything, and if I told Louis there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t go with Beauchamp anyway. Louis idolized Beauchamp and was blind to his faults. I could see it every day in rehearsal when Beauchamp was too hard on a student or misremembered the choreography. Louis defended him no matter what. If I told him what kind of man Beauchamp really was, Louis might not believe me. I couldn’t take that chance. There was no way I would ever let Beauchamp do to Louis what he did to me. 

“You heard me. Take me to Kiev instead of Louis,” I said firmly.

Beauchamp gracefully circled around his desk, his fingertips skimming the books and paperwork. He closed the office door. My stomach twisted. 

“I want Tomlinson,” he said.

Over my dead body.

“He’s a good boy,” Beauchamp mused. “Eager to please and very… obedient.”

I panicked. “I’m obedient! I’ll do whatever you want, Sir. Take me instead. Please!”

He laughed to himself, closing the space between us, and twirled one of my curls around his finger. “You’ve been so cold to me, Harry. You didn’t even say goodbye in the studio yesterday. That really hurt my feelings. I was starting to think you didn’t enjoy our time together.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy for me. 

“I enjoyed it,” I said, just above a whisper. I rose up on my toes to meet his lips and kissed him with my mouth closed.

He seized me by the waist and pushed me up against the wall. His chest was almost twice the size of mine and crushed the air out my lungs. He forced my mouth open with his tongue. His stubble scratched my cheeks and my nostrils filled with the scent of his pungent cologne. 

“You little tease,” he mouthed in my ear. “I knew you liked it. You were just playing hard to get, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you want me?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

He pulled back and examined my face. “Prove it.”

Without taking his eyes off me, he undid his belt and unzipped his pants. My entire being sank with dread. 

I looked at the door and pleaded, “Come on, not here.”

“I thought you wanted me? Don’t you want to come to Kiev?”

I shifted in my sneakers. “Yeah.”

“Then be my good boy.” He lifted my chin. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

I dropped my backpack and got on my knees. The floor felt cold through my jeans. My injured knee ached. You can do this, I told myself. Just do it. Just do it and get it over with. 

I took him into my mouth. 

It was so much worse than I remembered: the smell, the taste. He thrust into me and hit the back of my throat. I wasn’t ready. My eyes watered. I choked.

He patted my head. “Good. Good.” His breathing became uneven. “This is so good. God, I’ve missed your mouth, Harry.”

I hated hearing him say my name. I wanted to be called nothing at all when I was doing this. I wanted to be dead. 

“Such a good boy,” he moaned. “You’re my special boy, Harry.”

He fisted my hair and thrust faster and harder. He was so rough. Why did he have to make it hurt? I was doing as I was told. I was being good.

He finished and I coughed and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. 

“We’re going to have so much fun in Kiev,” he said, panting, doing up his belt. “Two whole weeks…” he smiled. “You looking forward to it?” 

I nodded and forced a smile, quietly reliving the hell he put me through in Paris, wondering if I had the strength to go through it all again. I did, I realized, because now I wasn’t doing it because I was weak. I was doing it for Louis. I had to be strong to protect him.


	13. Chapter 13

LOUIS / PRESENT

 

Because I had the misfortune of being born on Christmas Eve, I always celebrated my birthday a week early. The event doubled as a company holiday party since it would be the last time most of us would see each other before the break. 

Only thirty people or so showed up but because my flat was small the place felt packed. The windows steamed up from the heat of bodies drinking and laughing. 

Eleanor and Liam were fighting over the electric stove. Liam was making his signature fish tacos while Eleanor made pot brownies. They shuffled around each other in my tiny kitchenette trying not to get fish in the brownies a visa versa. 

I was running around playing host, making sure everyone had a drink in their hand and a coaster.

Jeffrey and I were still dating. He’d taken it upon himself to act as co-host, taking people’s coats and giving them a tour of my flat. 

“Look at this view!” he boasted, leading guests out on the balcony, and then back inside. “This is our reading nook, and we watch TV over here. Wait, let me put on the DVD I found of Louis’ old dance recitals!” 

No, please no. 

“And this is what Louis looked like as a baby. So chubby!” 

Don’t ask me how he found my old family albums. I didn’t even know I had them. Jeffrey wasn’t a naturally curious person but when it came to me he was like a fucking archeologist. 

Jeffrey’s fixation with me didn’t stop at my baby pictures. I had decided to wear my burgundy sweater that night and Jeffrey was wearing blue. He immediately changed into an identical burgundy sweater when he saw what I was wearing. 

“Oh God,” I said to him, “we’re that couple.” 

“Shut up, we’re cute.”

“We look like brothers!”

“All the guys in the village dress like their boyfriends.”

“But we’re not in the village, we’re in my flat.”

“We’re gay men wherever we are, Louis. Dressing alike is a symbol of our relationship and shows solidarity with our people.” 

I grinned. It was so adorable when he lectured me on mores of our community. Jeffrey had been out of the closet all of five minutes. 

Zayn and Gigi arrived, a light dusting of snow on their wool coats. I kissed them both and they handed me a bottle of red. 

Niall and Maurice arrived minutes later. Poor Maurice. Scarred by his experiences with Harry in the studio, he kept looking over his shoulder, his tiny black eyes blinking wildly.

“Don’t worry, Maurice. I didn’t invite Harry.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” He reached for the sweetest liquor he could find on my small drink cart. “Harrie has been yelling at me all all day! I can’t take another minute of that man.”

I nodded sympathetically. I knew the feeling.

Niall bought me a book. He didn’t bother to wrap it. He just stuck a ratty bow on the cover. It was a biography of the former manager of Manchester United, Max Ferguson. 

“Cheers, I’ve been meaning to read this.”

“Let me know when you finish so I can borrow it.”

“And never give it back, like you do with all my other books.”

“Precisely.”

The music was loud but so was everyone else. I could barely hear what song was playing over the throng of conversation. I couldn’t make out too many faces either. Jeffrey and I put up twinkly Christmas lights and turned off the overhead light. It was dark enough for intimate conversation and just bright enough to see where you were walking. 

Everyone had arrived. I was darting from friend to friend having a laugh when, unexpectedly, the buzzer rang. 

I stepped onto the small balcony. Zayn was out there having a smoke. 

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Just your mortal enemy.” 

I looked down. There was Harry, bundled up, holding a bottle of wine. 

I stormed inside. “Alright, who invited him?” 

The room was silent. Then Gigi cracked.

“It was me,” she confessed. 

Maurice clutched his chest, betrayed. 

“He wanted me to partner with him again tonight and I was too tired to come up with a lie. I haven’t slept in three weeks. He’s a slave driver!” She had dark circles beneath her eyes. Harry had been making her rehearse with him late into the night, every night.

Normally I didn’t care when friends invited friends to my party, but in this case I had specifically not invited Harry because I didn’t want him there. Neither did Maurice and neither did Jeffrey. Especially Jeffrey. He gave me a warning glare. 

“Tell him to leave.”

“I’ll get rid of him.”

I didn’t buzz Harry up. Instead I went downstairs to the lobby to tell him it would be better if he didn’t come up.

Harry brightened when he saw me through the glass door. His ears and nose were pink and he was bouncing to keep warm. 

I opened the lobby door. “Hi Harry.”

“Happy birthday,” he said, feigning normalcy, like we hadn’t fought just days before. He handed me the bottle of wine: Ravenswood Lodi Zinfandel. 

“Gigi and Zayn got me the same one.”

Harry looked gutted. “She said it was your favorite. I didn’t realize she’d gotten you the same. I should have thought of that,” he chided himself.

“That’s okay, you can’t have too much of a good thing.” 

Harry glanced at the buzzer. I hadn’t buzzed him up and I still hadn’t invited him inside. It was dawning on him that I didn’t want him there. 

He tried to save face. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I just wanted to drop that off.” He smiled nervously. “Goodnight.”

I shut my eyes. “Harry, wait.”

“I really have to go. Bye.”

“Come upstairs.”

“Can’t, I have plans. Have a nice time.” He waved.

I knew he was just going to go back to the studio alone. I felt horrible. He was trying to make amends and here I was being unforgivably rude. 

“Please,” I said, freezing in the doorway. “Come up. I mean it. Gigi and Eleanor are here. So are Zayn and Liam.”

He turned around slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe just for a little while.”

Jeffrey refused to take Harry’s coat, so I took it and laid it down on my bed with all the others. Harry followed me into the bedroom. The back of my neck prickled. I’d never been embarrassed by my flat before but I was now. My place was probably a lot smaller than his. My whole life was smaller than his. I was now acutely aware of every modest, unstylish thing I owned. Harry’s taste was much more sophisticated. And what was I thinking with the twinkle lights? They were so childish. 

“You have a lot of friends, Louis.”

“Not enough to fill the Royal Opera House.”

“Those aren’t my friends. They’re just people who know who I am.” 

Harry was looking at the photos on my dresser, many of them from our time at school. He picked up a framed photo of me and Zayn in the studio. 

“I remember that day.” He picked up another one, with me and Gigi and Eleanor on a double decker bus. “And this day.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. It was a glaring omission. He was with me on each of those days. Back then we were together every day. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to have pictures of me up in your flat.”

“You cut me out of your speech,” I said defensively. 

“That didn’t really bother you, did it?” he said in disbelief. 

“And you refused to shake my hand at the patron’s dinner.” 

Harry hugged his arms. He was wearing a grey cashmere sweater. It looked soft and warm. 

“I apologize.” He sat on the edge of my bed. “Do you forgive me?”

“That’s not the apology I want and you know it.”

Jeffrey stepped into the room, zeroing in on Harry. Then he turned to me and announced airily, “The brownies are done, sweetie.”

“Harry, you remember my boyfriend Jeffrey.”

“Hello, Jeffrey,” he said, leaning back on the bed.

Jeffrey stuck his little China doll nose in the air. “Sorry our bedroom is such a mess. We woke up late this morning.”

Subtle.

“I don’t mind. I used to share a bedroom with Louis. I know what he’s like.”

Jeffrey’s face turned a shade of red I’d never seen before.

“No you don’t. We’re not just roommates. We’re a couple.”

Harry glanced at our matching sweaters. “Really? I couldn’t tell.” 

“I see you’re here alone,” Jeffrey goaded, trying desperately to get under Harry’s skin. “How awkward for you.”

Harry sighed. “Yes. It’s hard to find time for a relationship when work is so demanding. You must have loads of free time now that you’ve been cut from Swan Lake.” 

Jeffrey didn’t have another comeback in him. He eyed me angrily and left in a huff. 

“You better go tend to your boyfriend,” Harry said.

Why didn’t I stick up for Jeffrey? What the hell was wrong with me? It was confusing seeing Harry in my bedroom. On my bed. I let him get into my head. 

I joined Jeffrey in the kitchen, wrapping my arms around him snugly as Harry looked on behind us. 

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Um, do you two lovebirds want to help me serve these?” she said, holding out the tray with her oven mitts. 

I cut the brownies up into tiny pieces and placed them on my only holiday themed platter. Most guests politely declined, not wanting to get too fucked up on a weeknight, but Zayn and Gigi greedily accepted and so did Niall. I wasn’t planning to partake since I was the host, but my encounter with Harry had rattled me and I needed something to take the edge off.

Harry cornered Maurice the first chance he got. He had been trying to change parts of his solo but Maurice said no and got Kenneth to back him up. Harry wouldn’t take no for an answer, and after a few drinks Maurice’s defenses were down. 

“Please, you must understand, I am a traditional man. My choreography pays homage to the Russian masters, Petipa and Ivanov.”

“Tradition is just another word for old. Your ideas are old,” Harry spat.

I had to rescue him. 

“Maurice, can I interest you in a brownie or a taco, perhaps?”

“We’re talking,” said Harry.

Maurice scurried over to me. “I would love a taco,” he said, over-annunciating the “t” with his thick Swiss accent. 

I led Maurice over to Liam who was serving tacos to a lineup of eager guests.

Harry leaned against the wall and scowled. “I’m not done with him.”

“Yes, you are!” I snapped. “We’re not in the studio. This is a party. My party. I’m not going to stand by and watch you attack my guests! Were you raised by wolves?”

“I wasn’t attacking him! He needs to hear this. I’m right.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re always right, aren’t you? You should worry less about being right and more about being liked.”

He paused. “Do you like me?”

“You’re a hard person to like, Harry.”

The room tilted. I could feel the pot brownies start to take effect. Everything was a little out of focus and my thoughts started to run together. I couldn’t keep track of what I was saying in my head and what I was saying out loud. 

“But I--I think about you a lot.” 

Harry pursed his lips and looked away, embarrassed by my sudden frankness. 

I dropped down to the ground and sat cross-legged. It’s not something one does out of the blue, but high it seemed like a perfectly reasonable move. 

Harry slid down the wall and joined me. “What do you think about?” he asked.

“How beautiful you were when I first met you. How shy, how gentle and sweet.”

Harry winced. “I don’t like talking about how I was as a boy.”

“Why?”

“I hate that person.” 

“I miss him.”

Harry’s translucent eyes picked up the grey of his sweater and he gazed at me with steely resignation. “He’s gone.”

I reached out and touched his chest. “No he isn’t.” Harry tried to brush my hand away but I left it there firmly. I could feel his heart skipping anxiously beneath the soft sweater. 

“Do you ever think about me?” I asked.

He let me suffer for a minute, then said, “Yes.”

“Well, what do you think about?”

“I can’t say. I’m too sober.”

My eyes widened. I would have done anything to read his mind in that moment. I glanced over my shoulder to see if there were brownies nearby.

“I—”

“Excuse me!” Jeffrey interrupted. 

Oh shit. Jeffrey. 

I scrambled to my feet and steadied myself on his shoulder. He walked me over to the couch and we collapsed there. He seemed pretty angry so I was expecting an earful. Jeffrey could be quite feisty when he wanted to be. But instead of giving me one of his long hysterical lectures, he began fiercely making out with me. I hated public displays of affection and under normal circumstances I would have been mortified, but I was too high, and kind of turned on after my conversation with Harry. He was still on the ground where I left him, watching us. I could hear Zayn and Niall snickering to each other and Gigi yelling at us to get the hell off her sweater. 

People began to leave two or three hours later. I said a long slurred goodbye to Maurice, who was exhausted by all us young folks and our antics. Zayn would have stayed later but Gigi was too tired. They split a taxi with Eleanor. Liam and Niall were chatting on the balcony, but they decided to continue their chat on the walk home. I hugged them all goodbye, until it was just Jeffrey and I alone in the flat. Or so I thought.

“What were you two talking about?” Jeffrey asked, while he did the dishes.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Nothing,” I shrugged, picking up plates of half-eaten brownies off the coffee table. 

“It didn’t look like nothing,” he mumbled. “I thought we agreed he wasn’t invited.”

“I didn’t invite him.”

“You could have asked him to leave.”

“Jeffrey, that’s so rude!” 

“I don’t care! He got me removed from the show for no reason!”

Just then Harry appeared in the bedroom doorway. “It wasn’t for no reason,” he said. 

Oh God, how long had he been standing there? What did he hear?

Harry took the plates out of Jeffrey’s hands and placed them in the kitchen sink. He turned on the water and began doing the washing up like he owned the place. 

Jeffrey was ready to explode. He always suspected Harry got him fired from the show but he didn’t know for sure. Now he had it straight from the horse’s mouth. 

“What reason could there be?”

Harry threw the dishcloth over his shoulder and leaned back against the sink. “You aren’t good enough, Jeffrey.”

I had to physically hold Jeffrey back. 

“Are you fucking serious? Kenneth loves me and Maurice was talking about giving me a solo.”

“You might be good enough by their standards, but you aren’t good enough to share a stage with me, and you certainly aren’t good enough to share a stage with Louis!”

Jeffrey wriggled out of my grip and got in Harry’s face. “I’ve shared a stage with Louis before and I’ll do it again!”

“Not while I’m in the company!” 

I didn’t even know what they were arguing about anymore. I got in between them and pushed them apart. 

Jeffrey clawed at my arms like a cat. “I may not be sharing a stage with Louis but I am sharing his bed. What are you even doing here, Harry? You weren’t invited! Louis HATES you!”

Hurt flickered across Harry’s impassive expression.

He went to the bedroom, got his coat, and ran out of the flat, cheeks burning red.

“Can you believe him?” Jeffrey boomed. “He’s crazy! I told you he was out to get me! He’s going to sabotage my whole career while he’s at the company!” 

“Jeffrey, you were way out of line,” I said, shrugging on my coat to go after Harry. “You can’t talk to him that way. He’s my colleague.”

“I’m your boyfriend!” Jeffrey cried, throwing himself against my chest. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart.” I dried his tears with my thumb and kissed him quickly. “But I have to fix this.” 

I left the apartment, flew down the steps and out the door to my building. Harry was halfway down the street, hands in his pockets, snow falling gracefully onto his shoulders. 

“Harry!” I called. 

He stopped and looked at me. 

I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to apologize for Jeffrey. Harry had behaved badly too.

“I just wanted to thank you again for... the wine.”

He ambled over to me, the icy wind making him sniffle a little. “Is it true you didn’t want me to come tonight?”

I looked down. “Harry, things haven’t been good between us. I’m sorry but I thought it would be easier for me and…”

“Jeffrey.”

“Yeah.”

Harry gazed up my apartment, watching the flashing Christmas lights in the widow like a fireworks display. 

“Does he really make you happy?”

It was a strange question coming from someone who devoted so much energy to hurting me.

“Yes.”

Harry’s face turned back to the dark, empty street. “Good.”

It was freezing. I had to go inside and let him catch a taxi. But there was so much more I wanted to say. “Do you think we might ever go back to being like we were?”

“How do you mean?” he furrowed his brow, unsure.

“I mean, before Beauchamp took you to Kiev.”

All uncertainty fell from his face and his features turned to stone. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this “present” chapter. I know the drama is more lowkey in the “present” than the “past” right now, but I’m doing my best to keep it interesting. Thanks for sticking with it! 
> 
> Next week’s “past” chapter is the actual fight between Louis and Harry about Kiev. It’s going to get ugly...


	14. Chapter 14

HARRY / PAST

No one had ever hated me before. Sure, people disliked me. Some kids at school back in Cheshire used to make fun of my hair. I had an older cousin who thought I was pretty annoying. But no one hated me, and certainly not the people I loved most. It was ironic then when the person I loved more than anyone in whole world was the first person to truly and completely hate me.

After my meeting with Beauchamp I skipped my studio session and walked the long gravely path back to Jebsen. I tried to come up with some explanation for why I was now going to Kiev instead of Louis. I could blame it on Beauchamp and say he changed his mind. I could downplay the trip and say that Beauchamp thought Louis was too important to the winter showcase to miss rehearsal. He did have a solo after all. That was my best shot at sparing his feelings. 

Louis wasn’t in our room when I got back but his suitcase was. It was fully packed. 

There was also a note addressed to me on the desk. It was written on RBS stationary in Louis’ hurried, jagged pen strokes. 

_Dear Lysander,_

_I left to hand in my permission slip and passport to Beauchamp. In case I don’t see you before my trip, I wanted to thank you. I was so excited last night I forgot to tell you this. I wouldn’t be where I am without you. You’ve always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. Now all of my dreams are coming true! I didn’t think anything this amazing could happen to me, but the very best thing that ever happened to me is you. I wish you knew how beautiful you are inside and out. Please don’t be too hard on yourself while I’m away. You’re my favorite dancer remember?_

_Love always,  
Demetrius_

I shut my eyes and crumpled the letter in my hand. 

I went into the closet and grabbed my duffel bag. I began stuffing random clothing inside haphazardly, wrinkling my suit and all of my good shirts. There would be no guidebook on this trip, no camera, no pretty scarf and no precious cufflinks. I didn’t care what I looked like or what I saw in Kiev. I wanted to forget the trip before it had even begun. 

I watched the clock on the nightstand as seconds and minutes ticked by. It was only a matter of time before Louis handed in his documents to Beauchamp and learned that he wouldn’t be going to Kiev. 

I fished my passport out of the desk. I got my mother to email a scan of the permission slip earlier that morning. She told me she was proud of me. If she knew the real me she wouldn’t be so proud.

I knew Louis would be angry. I knew he might yell and scream. I thought I was prepared for his reaction. I wasn’t.

I was packed and watching out the window for Beauchamp’s car when Louis entered the room behind me. 

I turned around. Tears were streaming down his face.

He was holding his permission slip in one hand and his passport in the other. His hair was brushed neatly to one side, and he was wearing his favorite outfit—a blue pullover and grey slacks with patent leather shoes. Despite the tears, I had never seen him look more handsome. He had dressed in his best clothes for the trip because this was supposed to be the best day of his life. 

“How could you?” he choked.

“Beauchamp changed his mind,” I stammered. “You’re too important to the winter showcase to--”

“Liar.” Louis’ glare was razor sharp. “Beauchamp told me you went to his office this morning and convinced him to take you instead of me.”

I was hoping Beauchamp would make it out to be his choice instead of mine. But he couldn’t even do me that one kindness, the one thing that might have saved my friendship with Louis. 

What could I say for myself? I parroted what I’d heard Louis and other boys say about these trips. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“You got to go with him to Paris! This was my chance, my opportunity, and you stole it from me!” Louis let his passport and permission slip fall from his fingers. 

I was scrambling to come up with answers. “I have to start thinking about my career and my future.”

“You, you, you,” Louis sobbed, his face in his hands. “How can you be so selfish?” 

He sat on the edge of the bottom bunk and wiped away his tears with his sleeve. 

“I was so wrong about you. I thought you cared about me. I thought you were my best friend. But ever since you got back from Paris all you care about is being perfect. You don’t eat. You barely sleep. You rehearse alone every day, morning and night. We used to rehearse together! Now you don’t even want me around. Have you been logging more hours in the studio just to beat me?” 

That was so far from the truth I didn’t even know how to respond.

“Or did you want to be the only one who’s special? You can’t stand that Beauchamp thinks I’m special too!” he cried.

If only he knew the cost of being “special.” If only he knew how much I loved him, what I was willing to do to protect him and keep him safe. 

“I deserve to go to Kiev,” I replied stiffly. “I work hard. Like you said, I log more hours in the studio than you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you even want to go or are you just taking this from me because you can?”

“This trip is important to me,” I answered coldly. 

“It’s important to you? Beauchamp is my idol! You didn’t even know who he was until I told you! Paris, Kiev, these trips mean nothing to you. It’s just a status symbol. I’m the one who truly appreciates his work. Even if you don’t care about me, can’t you see how unfair you’re being?”

I was screaming inside. I needed him to read my heart, to hear the words I could not say. 

When I looked out the window again I saw that Beauchamp’s car had pulled up. 

Louis’ tears subsided at the sight of the car. His face was red with anger now. “Do you even know how lucky you are? No, you don’t. You don’t even respect him. In rehearsal you barely pay attention. You’re rude when he comes around to correct you. I’ve seen it. He’s the world’s greatest living dancer and you can’t be bothered to be polite.”

I balled my hands into fists. I had to get out of there before we both said something we regretted. 

But Louis’ temper had taken on a life of its own. “What could you possibly have to offer on these trips?”

I felt sick with anger. 

“He’s sacrificing his time and his expertise for an ungrateful brat!”

“Louis, I’m warning you…”

“You don’t even know anything about the ballet! You probably don’t understand a word he says!” he laughed manically. 

“Shut up.”

“You certainly don’t understand him.”

I grabbed Louis by the throat. “I understand him, okay. I understand him.”

Louis slapped me and I stumbled backward and crashed into the desk. The second I regained my composure I punched him in the mouth. 

He blinked wildly, stunned. He touched his bloody lip and lifted his icy blue eyes. “You’re too _stupid_ to understand someone as brilliant as Beauchamp.” 

I flew into a fucking rage. I climbed up to his bunk and began ripping pictures of Beauchamp off his wall one by one. 

“I understand him, I understand him…” I repeated, like a madman. 

Then I snatched the old programme Louis had kept since he was five from the very first ballet he ever saw, the one signed by Beauchamp.

“No!” Louis shrieked.

I ripped it into tiny pieces. 

Louis fell to his knees. 

I tore up the glossy images of Beauchamp until they were nothing but specs on the hardwood floor. Louis gathered them up like flakes of gold. 

I stared at him and then at my shaking hands, shocked by what I had done. It was so out of character it was like someone else had done it, or it had happened in a dream. This was Louis’ most prized possession, and I destroyed it before his very eyes. 

I was treating him as though he knew what had happened to me. He didn’t know. He had no idea, but I had so much rage inside me and nowhere else to put it. 

“Go,” was the only word he could muster. 

I didn’t want to leave him like this but Beauchamp’s driver was honking outside. I headed for the door.

Louis stopped me, his voice thick with tears, “And don’t come back. I don’t want to live with you anymore.”

“Louis--” 

He threw himself on the bottom bunk and wept into the pillow.

Before I could leave, the door flew open. Beauchamp was standing there, leaning on our doorframe, his sleeves rolled up and his silk tie loosened. “Harry, I’ve been waiting outside for over twenty minutes! Let’s go! We’re going to miss our flight!”

He glanced over my shoulder and his voice softened. “Louis? Are you alright?”

Louis lifted his tear-soaked face from the pillow. “No, Sir.”

I tried to stop him, but Beauchamp stepped around me and kneeled by Louis’ bedside. “What is it darling?”

“Please take me with you!” Louis begged. “You promised I could go Kiev! Please, please, please! I worship you! I would work twice as hard as Harry!”

Beauchamp lips twitched and slowly spread into a smile. He reached out and stroked Louis’ smooth cheek with the back of his hand. “You would?”

I pushed myself between them and locked eyes with Beauchamp. “Leave him!” I growled. 

He stood up and backed away, eyebrows raised, amused by my reaction. “I’m terribly sorry it didn’t work out, Louis. I’m taking Harry with me. My decision is final.” 

Louis threw himself on the bed, sobbing in fury and despair. 

Beauchamp picked up my bags and carried them to the door, motioning for me to come along. 

I kneeled by Louis’ bedside. “Goodbye, Demetrius.” 

He turned to face me, his red-rimmed eyes empty, his voice pure venom, “I hate you.”

I bowed my head. I couldn’t do this. I wasn’t strong enough. It hurt too much. I loved Louis and I wanted him to love me back. It’s the only thing I ever wanted… I took a deep breath and composed myself. No, I was doing the right thing. Loving Louis meant protecting him. Even if he hated me for it. Even if it meant losing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Louis comes across as sympathetic in this chapter, even though he says some terrible things. I know Harry’s struggle is so much bigger, but it’s all relative. To Louis this is the worst thing anyone’s ever done to him. 
> 
> In the next “present” chapter, Harry continues to terrorize the company with his outrageous demands, and Louis visits Harry’s flat for the first time…


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes reference to a character mentioned briefly in Chapter 10.

LOUIS / PRESENT

 

It had been a pleasant Christmas. I brought Jeffrey home to meet my family, and later we went on a romantic ski trip to the Swiss Alps. He got on with my family and was an easy travel companion. Everything was perfect, but I longed to get back in the studio. 

Jeffrey could sense this restlessness in me and remarked on how “far away” I seemed. I tried to be attentive. I listened to stories of him as teenager struggling to come out, I took him to his favorite restaurants, to the theater, I even indulged his need to go clubbing from time to time. He read the arts section aloud to me in bed every morning over coffee and we’d have a laugh about the bad reviews we agreed with and seethed about the ones we didn’t. 

I should have loved those cozy mornings in, but they were strained. I felt like I was watching myself play the part of the dutiful boyfriend. I did and said all the right things but for all the wrong reasons. 

I went back to work the second week of January. On the icy steps of the Royal Opera House I breathed a sigh of relief. I was home. 

I stripped off my jacket in the studio and heard loud banging on the other side of the door. 

When I peeked out the studio window, I saw that pieces of the gauzy dreamlike set had been disassembled and were being carried out of the auditorium on the backs of the stage crew. The men grunted with annoyance under the heavy panels and Liam trailed behind them.

I opened the door and stuck my head out. “What’s wrong with the set?”

He frowned, pressing his clipboard to his chest. “Nothing.”

“Then why the hell are you having it disassembled?”

“I’m not. Harry is.”

I stepped into the corridor and checked my watch. “We’ve been back from holiday for less than an hour and he’s already barking orders?”

Liam leaned against the wall. It looked like he was about to collapse. “Harry didn’t take a holiday. Apparently, he doesn’t believe in them. I had to give up my own holiday to stay here and make sure he didn’t burn the place down.” 

Just then Maurice swept up to us, carrying his small poodle Bijou under his arm. “That monster refuses to accept my choreography!” Maurice exclaimed. His dog yipped, bewildered by her owner’s distress. I knew things had to be bad if he was bringing his dog in as reinforcement. He only brought in Bijou when he was feeling particularly harassed. 

I put my hands on my hips resolutely. “I thought you let him change his solo?”

“I did!” Maurice screeched. “Now he wants to change Gigi’s solo and the pas de quatre in Act Two!” 

“It never ends,” Liam moaned, rubbing his temples. “You give him an inch and he takes a mile.”

It was chaos. Corps dancers poured out of Studio A, watching and whispering, while Gigi and Eleanor stormed down the corridor, half in costume from their fitting. 

“Liam, why don’t you just explain to him what’s in his contract,” I said, exasperated.

Liam raked his fingers through his short beard. “He refuses to come to the studio or even speak to me until his demands are met.”

“He’s holding the whole production hostage until he gets his way!” Gigi screamed like her hair was on fire. “This is my first time performing the lead in Swan Lake! It’s the most important performance of my life! He’s going to ruin this for me and all of us!”

I’d never seen Gigi get hysterical. She was used to being in control but none of us could control Harry.

“Have you tried going to his flat?” I suggested. “Maybe you need to convince him face to face.”

Liam shook his head. “I’ve already tried that. So has Kenneth. He won’t budge.”

“Well, neither will I,” Maurice sniffed. 

“Nor should you,” I agreed. 

Harry had gone too far but I couldn’t say that I was surprised. “I told you, Liam. I told you he would be a nightmare and here we are!”

“Now is not the time to gloat,” Eleanor scolded, holding up the bodice of her half-finished black tutu. “What are we going to do?”

I was fresh out of ideas but they all looked at me like I was the answer. 

“Go see him, Louis,” Liam pleaded. “You used to be best friends. You’re the closest to him out of all of us.” 

I laughed. “We’re not best friends anymore in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Liam’s right,” said Gigi. “Even if you two hate each other, he might be convinced by a dancer rather than the administration.”

“I wouldn’t say we hate each other,” I huffed. “Hate is a strong word…”

“So, it’s settled then. Louis will talk to Harry.”

How did I get roped into this? I followed Liam into his office and he scribbled Harry’s address down on a piece of paper. I recognized the building number from a recent issue of Architectural Digest. He lived in a luxury ten-story flat on the Thames. 

I held up the paper. “Oi! How much are you paying him?”

Liam swiveled me around and pushed me out the door. “He’s worth every penny. Now bring him back.”

I sure as hell wasn’t going to go on this mission alone. The second I left Liam’s office I recruited Zayn, who was rehearsing his solo in Studio B.

Gamely, he agreed and we headed out of the Opera House together. Zayn was having a hard time getting back into the swing of things at work. He and Gigi ditched both of their families for the holidays and went on a two-week bender in Ibiza. He fell into a deep sleep on the tube. I doubted he would be much help. I should have brought Niall.

Harry’s flat was right on the Thames. It was windier and colder there than the interior of the city but also more beautiful, a place where you could take in the London Eye, Big Ben and the Tate. All the things that made the city great.

His name wasn’t on the buzzer. Next to his flat number, 10B, was a white rectangle where his name should have been. Maybe he wanted to protect his anonymity or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered with those details. I bet a flat like this wasn’t even big deal to him. I would take pride in a place like this, and the details, especially the details.

I cleared my throat and pressed the buzzer. I was nervous. Why was I nervous? 

Harry’s voice was deep and staticy on the other end. “Hello?”

“It’s me. Louis.”

Dead silence. 

Zayn piped up. “I’m here too. It’s Zayn.”

Harry buzzed us up. I was hurt that he wouldn’t let me up alone. I shouldn’t have been. We hadn’t exactly patched things up.

Harry opened the door. He was wearing nothing but soft, flannel pajama bottoms that hung tantalizingly low off his narrow hips. “What do you want?”

“Happy New Year to you too.”

He stepped aside and let us in. I was expecting to see fine antiques or furniture so modern its intended use was a mystery. I was expecting art and beauty and decadence in some form or another. 

The place was completely empty. There was no furniture and it was disturbingly clean, bleached from top to bottom. 

“So…” I said sarcastically. “Where do you hide the bodies?”

Without missing a beat, Harry answered, “In the walls.”

Zayn chucked his bag in the corner. “You two are hil-ar-ious.”

The room itself was extraordinary. Open concept with freshly waxed hardwood floors and a stainless steel chef’s kitchen. The convex windows went all the way up to the second floor. It was like being inside an aircraft. I looked outside and felt like I was flying over the Thames. 

I didn’t understand why he hadn’t done anything with the place. How could he live like this? Why would he live like this?

“Love what you’ve done with the place, Harold. Cozy.”

“It’s just a place to sleep,” he said flatly. “I’m not here often.”

“I can tell. Do you have a bed at least?” I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did.

Harry didn’t seem to notice. “I do have a bed.”

There was something strikingly familiar about the place. I didn’t know quite what it was at first and then I realized: it looked just like a studio. 

Zayn was making good use of the empty floor space, practicing his solo. Harry and I leaned on the kitchen island and watched him move against the grey London skyline. His wiry body was well suited to Maurice’s precise choreography. He unfurled his limbs like a spider, slow and controlled. He would have made a good Von Rothbart, I thought, but Harry’s interpretation was more than good, it was a triumph. Harry didn’t just dance the choreography, he danced above it, somewhere between art and heaven, where he was untouchable. 

The kitchen was as stark as the rest of the flat with the exception of a glass cupboard filled with medication. Harry obviously wasn’t hiding it so I didn’t feel intrusive reading the labels: tramadol, buprenorphine, diamorphine, fentanyl, hydromorphone, oxycodone, and pethidine. There were also sedatives: zolpidem, eszopiclone and zaleplon. 

I recognized many of the names because my grandfather had been on several of these drugs for various illnesses at the later stages of his life.

“These are serious drugs, Harry.” 

“The pain killers are for my knee, the sedatives for my insomnia.”

I knew enough about these drugs to know that you couldn’t mix opioids with sedatives.

“You can’t mix these,” I said.

He went into the cupboard and took out the oxycodone with one hand and the zolpidem with the other. “I don’t. Every day I choose between sleeplessness,” he rattled the oxycodone, “or pain,” he rattled the zolpidem. Then he tilted his head, curious. “Which do you think I choose, Louis?”

I felt my chest tighten because I knew the answer and at the same time I didn’t want to know it. “Pain.”

Harry smiled grimly. “You do know me, old friend.”

I thought of Harry’s dancing, how effortless he made it all look but also how powerful, like he possessed strengths that no other dancer had. It was the exact opposite. Every step he took must have been excruciating. There was a terrifying beauty in this, as though his suffering made his dancing that much more exquisite, that much more ephemeral and rare. 

Harry was staring at his laptop now, which rested on the kitchen island. Since he hadn’t offered us anything to drink and he couldn’t offer us a seat, I decided to get straight to it. I couldn’t let my weakness for him cloud my judgment. I had to stay strong. I was here for the sake of the company. I had a job to do. Everyone was counting on me.

“Harry, you can’t always get your way. Now, I know that’s not something you want to hear, and frankly I’m not sure that’s something you can hear. Maurice isn’t going to let you change any more of his choreography. Come back to rehearsal. Swallow your pride and be a man about it.” 

“That’s not why I’m not at rehearsal,” Harry said. 

“That’s what you told Kenneth and Liam.”

He shrugged, rubbing his bare arms, his full lips in a doleful pout. “No. I just said I wasn’t coming in.”

I couldn’t normally read Harry. He was always so focused on work his thoughts and feelings were impenetrable. But now, with his furrowed brow and listless voice, I could tell something was wrong. 

“Are you okay?” I asked, placing a hand on his naked back. His skin felt like the taut satin of a ballet slipper. He was so cruel both to himself and to others I’d forgotten just how delicate he was. 

He leaned into me slightly, not quite allowing himself to be held. I couldn’t resist him when he was soft like this. 

So much for staying strong. 

I drew him closer. He looked down and a lock of hair fell in his eye. I brushed it back, so close to him now his floral scent washed over me. He gestured toward the screen of his laptop. It was an article on the BBC but the news item was from France: “Former Principal Dancer with the Paris Opera Ballet Found Dead in his Home. Suicide.” 

I recognized the name of the person in the article. It was a name I hadn’t heard in years. 

Hans Faust. 

He had been a student at RBS. He was two years ahead of us and was hired by The Paris Opera Ballet before he’d even graduated. Now he was dead, found in his apartment in Montmartre. He hanged himself. 

“Jesus,” I whispered.

Zayn came over and tilted the screen. “Hans! Fuck. When did this happen?”

Harry dragged a hand through his dark, wavy locks. “Over the weekend.” 

It’s always shocking when someone you know dies, especially when it’s by their own hand. I didn’t know Hans well but I admired his dancing, and from afar he had the perfect life. Plucked from school a year early to dance for one of the finest companies in the world, he had been popular and beloved by all our teachers and choreographers. He was gorgeous too, prettier than even the prettiest girls, with a head of golden curls that made him look like a cherub. 

We talked about Hans and tried to figure out why he might take his own life. He was by all accounts successful, but that came with tremendous pressure too. The article said he quit the company a year ago to due personal issues. Zayn and I tried to come up with an answer: money or relationship problems, depression? 

For someone who was so upset by this that he had to miss work, Harry was morbidly uninterested in why Hans did it. He was more focused on the details of the suicide itself. The time of day: morning. The method: bungee cord. The length of time it would have taken: 20 minutes. How much Hans suffered... 

Then I stopped and thought for a minute. Harry wasn’t at RBS when Hans was there. He enrolled the year after Hans left. 

I lifted my hand off his back like I’d been burned. I looked at him quizzically. “You didn’t go to school with Hans. He’d already left by the time you came to RBS.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“What is this?” I said. Why would Harry an emotional cipher who didn’t give a damn about anyone suddenly care about the death of a man he’d never met? “Were you trying to use this tragedy to manipulate me? Us?”

“Did you know him?” Zayn said quickly, not believing Harry was capable of being so calculating. I knew better.

“In a sense.”

“In what sense?” I was fuming. 

Harry slammed his laptop shut. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Louis. Believe what you want.”

“You thought you could gain our sympathy and we’d lay off and say ‘poor Harry, grieving his dead friend.’ You were never friends with Hans! I doubt you two even met!” 

Zayn’s dark eyes darted between us uncomfortably. “You did know him, Harry… didn’t you?”

Without even a hint of shame, Harry turned to Zayn. “Louis’ right. Hans was never my friend. I never met him.”

I shook my head. “You’ll do or say anything to get your way, won’t you?”

Harry slinked away from me. 

“Why do I keep falling for this? Why do I keep trying with you?” I said, more to myself than to Harry. 

He stared out the window. “I didn’t need to know Hans to mourn him.”

That was it. I’d had enough. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “Don’t say his name, you snake!”

“Louis!” Zayn barked. “Let’s just go.”

Harry threw me against the glass. If I looked down it felt like I was falling ten stories. 

“Where do you think you are right now?” he said, all too calmly. “I’ll tell you. You’re in my home. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

I pushed back against his chest but he wouldn’t budge. I was pinned there with his arms on either side of my waist, his breath beating down my neck, his lithe sinewy muscles threatening to crush me like a boa constrictor. 

Zayn yanked him off of me. Harry’s eyes were wild and murderous as he stumbled backward. 

I straightened my shirt, flustered. Zayn picked up his bag. We rushed to the door. 

“Tell Maurice I’ll see him in the studio when he’s implemented my notes on Gigi’s solo and the pas de quatre. Until then, I’m not setting foot in the Opera House.”

I opened the door, but Harry continued. “And Zayn, hope you weren’t too attached to your solo. I’m giving it to one of the corps dancers.”

“What?” he said, through clenched teeth.

Harry eyed me. “You have Louis to thank for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you don’t remember, Hans Faust is the boy Beauchamp took to Paris a few years before he took Harry. Harry didn’t know Hans personally but he did know this fact about him. 
> 
> Next week’s chapter is about Harry and Beauchamp's time in Kiev…


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Kiev. 
> 
> For some historical context, this part of the story takes place right after the 2014 Ukrainian revolution, after the riots and protests, but before the Crimean crisis. That’s partly why I chose Kiev. I thought the political tension might make for an interesting backdrop, even if the dates/ages don’t match up exactly with my story’s timeline. 
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains some disturbing subject matter.

HARRY / PAST

 

Kiev was in turmoil. The passport officer asked us if we were sure that’s where we were headed. Beauchamp assured him that it was. We’d arrived at the end of the Revolution of Dignity, where protestors had clashed violently with police in Maidan Nezalezhnosti, “Independence Square.” Graffiti, crumbling mortar and garbage accosted us at every turn. Concrete was black, scorched from the fires. Pamphlets and torn revolutionary flags littered the streets. There were still police in army fatigues with gas masks and protesters shouting in the square. Even though the worst of it was over, violence hung in the air like a heavy fog. 

I should have been scared of this place, but I was glad for it. All of its horrors and scars made me forget about my own. 

In the taxi I looked at some of the more interesting graffiti—a spray-painted Guy Fawkes mask, and a cartoon bull with a speech bubble that read “Fuck Putin.” But mostly I just quietly scrolled through my phone.

Beauchamp was watching me. He liked it when I played the part of the sullen teenager. He feigned annoyance. “Oh, Harry, put that away, please.” He took my phone. “Sit up straight. Smile once in a while.” 

We were ten minutes away from the apartment and sitting in traffic. Beauchamp spoke conversational Ukrainian and chatted with the driver. The word “syn” kept coming up over and over again. 

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Syn.”

Beauchamp leaned over and whispered, “Son. He thinks you’re my son.”

He put a hand on my knee.

We arrived at his new apartment in the center of the city early evening. It was an airy space with big windows, but the post war fixtures were utilitarian, worn and depressing.

Unlike his one-room apartment in Paris, this place had two bedrooms. I ran into the smaller room. It was painted robin’s egg blue and had a small pine desk. Maybe he would let me sleep here, I thought.

Beauchamp told me to follow him. He carried my bag to the master bedroom where we would both staying together. He said I would be too tired after “making love” to move to the other room. 

“You can stay in there during the day if you like. You can sit at the little desk and do your homework while I’m at the studio.” 

I nodded in defeat. 

In the master bedroom I shrugged off my backpack and let it fall to the floor. I began to take off my clothes. I wanted to do it right away. At least get the first round over with and hope that maybe it would numb me for the rest of the night. Anticipating what Beauchamp might do to me was almost worse than the act itself. 

He chuckled. “Eager are we?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Put on your suit,” he ordered. “We’re going to the opera house, but,” he took my hand and placed it between his legs, “there’ll be plenty of time for this later.” 

I snatched my hand back.

My suit was crumpled at the bottom of my bag. Hastily, I got dressed. I looked like shit but I didn’t care.

He looked me over and checked the tag on my jacket. “We really do need to get you some proper clothes, Harry. This is a kid’s suit.”

“I am a kid,” I said quietly. 

***

The Kiev Opera House didn’t seem much different than the one in Paris. The lobby was encased in white marble with red and gold accents. It had a dome ceiling with a colorful mural of the sky and painted angels watching over us. 

Everyone knew Beauchamp: dancers, choreographers and the wealthiest patrons. In his sleek navy suit and silver Hermes tie he extended his arms, making a bold, splashy entrance. The room erupted into applause that rolled throughout the packed opera house like a crashing wave. 

They were all great admirers of his when he was a dancer. One such pair were business partners and cousins Ivan and Evgeny Zhuk. Mining tycoons, I later learned, and pro-Russia separatists who loathed the interim Ukrainian government, and viewed the protests as a coup d'état. They were powerfully built with hooked noses and identical corporate suits. 

“Millionaires?” I whispered to Beauchamp.

“Billionaires.”

We shook hands. 

“You’re a very lucky boy,” said Ivan. “Very lucky, indeed. Alex is the greatest dancer the world has ever known.”

Evgeny finished his cousin’s thought, with a similar sing-song cadence. “The Zhuks were never patrons of the arts, until the night we saw Alex dance in Paris. So moving. So very moving.”

I nodded like I agreed but I had never actually seen Beauchamp dance. I tried to watch old clips of him online once but couldn’t stomach it. I hated that he had been a great dancer. I hated that the whole world loved him when I just wanted one person to love me and I couldn’t even have that.

As insufferable as it was hearing everyone sing his praises, I was relieved we were here in public and not at the apartment alone. Among his fans and new colleagues he wouldn’t dare touch me or do anything inappropriate. I almost felt free. 

I went to the bar and ordered a drink. The legal drinking age was 18 but the bartenders didn’t care, they served me anyway. This was a country that took laws about age more as guidelines. I had a vodka neat because I didn’t know the names of any mixed drinks. I never drank much at school, just a little bit to feel good. I preferred pot. When I was with Beauchamp I didn’t want to feel good. I wanted to get really, really fucked up. 

We would be watching a contemporary ballet. The choreographer was a blonde angular man named Boris that seemed to know Beauchamp well. They had danced in together in Paris. Now they would be working together in Kiev and had a lot to discuss. Beauchamp introduced me. 

“Boris, I’d like you to meet my protégé, Harry Styles.”

I was tipsy, distracted, and didn’t extend my hand. Beauchamp nudged my shoulder. The other man looked on disapprovingly.

“He’s not worthy of you, Alex.” Boris lowered his lined, hollow face. “Did no one ever teach you manners, young man?”

“Oh, come now, Boris,” Beauchamp said, hugging me from behind. “Give the boy a break. He’s a moody teenager. You were young once.” 

“Never.”

They laughed like old friends.

Beauchamp introduced me to a bunch of other people too, and I ordered a bunch more drinks. I was getting sloppy now, laughing inappropriately and mocking Beauchamp when I got the chance.

I did what I thought was a really funny impression of him with his umbrella in the studio and stumbled nearly spilling my drink all over the Artistic Director. Beauchamp didn’t think it was funny and it elicited nervous laughter from his new colleagues. I felt his hand curl tightly around the back of my neck and he whispered in my ear, “Careful.”

Or what? I thought. There was nothing he could do to me that hadn’t done a dozen times already. 

The Artistic Director’s name was Vladimir Antonov. He was an older man, older than Beauchamp, with a round face and reddish beard. Reading glasses hung from a chain around his neck. He put them on for a moment to examine my face more carefully. He was the only person who asked me anything about myself. 

“What year are you in, Harry?” His honey brown eyes shone warmly. 

“Fifth.”

“What an honor for you to be invited to escort Alex on such an important trip. You must be a very good student.”

“Yes, Sir,” I lied.

“I have a son about your age and he’s failing three classes! I wish he had half your dedication.”

I felt guilty letting him think I was a good student, but I couldn’t tell him the real reason I was on this trip. 

The lights in the lobby flickered on and off indicating that the show was about to start. Beauchamp was waiting for me inside, already in his seat. I trudged down the aisle and sat down next to him. As soon as the lights went down he began touching me. I felt myself beginning to sober up and all of the things that I would have to do later flashed though my mind with sickening clarity.

I watched the dancers move across the stage. There was no story. Their bodies crashed into each other, the men tossing the women around like old coats. They were all dressed in drab grey and flesh-toned tunics. It was hard to keep track of the principal dancers. This is what hell looks like, I thought, being thrown around and not knowing who’s throwing you or why. 

At intermission I waited in line to get another drink but the lineup was so long that the show started back up again and I had to go back to my seat sober. 

Beauchamp became emboldened as the night went on. He slipped a hand down the back of my pants. “I can’t wait to have this again… I’m going to make you scream.” 

I wanted to die. I thought I could go through with this because I had done it already, but it was too much. His touch brought back a muscle memory of our time in Paris and my eyes stung with tears. The fear. The disgust. My body, I couldn’t have his hands on my body again. 

When the ballet ended and Beauchamp was busy talking to his colleagues, I made a break for it. I pushed through the crowd and ran like mad up the aisle and to the lobby. I didn’t have enough money for a taxi but maybe I could hitchhike? Maybe I could walk? Or I could ask someone for change and take a bus. I could walk to the airport? No, I had to go back to the apartment and get my passport. Beauchamp was the only one with a key. Why didn’t I think to keep my passport on me? Why? Why? Why? 

The crowd was thickening around me carrying me forward. My face was wet with tears but I was too frantic to notice I was crying. I asked a woman who looked like a mother for help. “Help me,” I said. “Take me with you. Call for help.”

She shrugged and put up her hands. She didn’t speak English. I tried a few other women but they shied away from me and my crumpled suit and wild eyes. They probably thought I’d snuck into the theatre and wanted money for drugs, or they thought I was an activist, a revolutionary up to no good. Everyone was wary and on edge after the protests, not knowing when and where violence might suddenly erupt. 

No one would help me. I finally found my voice. I was finally brave enough to ask for help and everyone had turned their backs on me. 

The theatre was emptying quickly and I shuffled into the street with the crowd when I crashed right into Vladimir. 

He caught my arms. “My boy, what’s wrong? Alex has been looking everywhere for you.”

I completely broke down. I knew it wasn’t right to involve this important man in my disgusting drama, but he was kind. He had a son my age. He would listen. “I can’t go back to him,” I said, hands trembling. 

“Why on Earth not?”

“He hurts me.” I looked down at my shoes. 

Vladimir didn’t press me for details. “Have you told anyone about this?”

“No.” I glanced over my shoulder. I thought I saw the back of Beauchamp’s silver head over by the bar. “I have to go. I have to go before he finds me!” 

“Come with me,” Vladimir said. 

He put an arm around me and I felt safe. I couldn’t defend myself against Beauchamp, but this man could. 

He led me downstairs to the studios. There were still a few dancers milling about, their stage makeup thick as plaster. I startled at the sight of them.

Vladimir took me to a deserted corridor and ushered me into the studio on the very end. I relaxed. The things I had to tell him were awful and embarrassing and I didn’t want anyone else to hear.

The lights were already on inside the studio. 

When I entered, Beauchamp was standing inside with Boris and the Zhuk cousins, laughing and drinking brandy.

“Harry! There you are!”

Vladimir had betrayed me. He pretended to help me so that he could deliver me right back into Beauchamp’s arms. I should have known he wouldn’t believe me. Why would he choose to believe some stupid kid over an esteemed colleague? I turned around and delivered a hurt look. 

Vladimir locked the studio door.

Beauchamp, Boris and the Zhuk cousins were still laughing about some joke they’d made before I came in but hadn’t taken their eyes off me. 

Vladimir came up behind me suddenly and planted a prickly kiss on my cheek.

I was the joke. They were laughing about me. 

Boris handed me his drink. “Maybe this will relax him,” he said to the others.

The glass slipped through my fingers and smashed on the floor. I jumped away from the amber liquid. They laughed even harder. 

My heart beat fast as a jackrabbit.

Then all five men closed in around me.

I blinked wildly at each of their faces. “Please…”

I don’t remember how it started or even who started. Details from that night are jumbled. 

I remember the sound of their belts unbuckling.

I remember the smell of brandy on their lips.

I remember two pairs of hands undressing me.

I remember the garish studio light bouncing off the mirrors. 

I remember my reflection. 

I remember being so terrified of what was about to happen to me I shut my eyes.

They took turns.

Beauchamp was the roughest, Boris was the meanest, but it was Vladimir who hurt me the most. The polite, accommodating expression never left his face. He exhaled with effort as he got down on the ground and touched me with the gruff casualness of a handshake. He was heavy and the air left my lungs when he was on top of me. I kept thinking about his son at home in his fancy house already tucked in bed. I was somebody’s son too.

Just when I had gone completely numb, when I’d made myself dead inside. They found a new way to torture me.

Ivan and Evgeny had me at the same time. When they finished, the cousins circled me like a pair of wolves, panting and doing up their belts. Ivan turned to Beauchamp. “I know! Make him dance!”

“Yes, yes!” Evgeny echoed. “Make him dance for us!”

Please no, I thought.

Beauchamp’s wing tipped shoes appeared in front of me. “Get up.”

I stood, shakily, trying to cover myself with my hands. 

Beauchamp slapped my hands away from my body. A bit drunk, he said, “Perform your audition piece. That sad little solo from Giselle.” He pinched my cheek. 

They sat against the mirror, like Beauchamp had when I auditioned for him, and passed around the bottle of brandy. 

I danced for them. The bright light on my naked body, the cold air on my raw skin. Each step, turn and jump more humiliating than the last. 

They laughed at me. 

Every time I stumbled or forgot a step, their taunts and jeers became ruder, louder. 

As soon as I finished the solo, they asked me to start over from the beginning. I danced and danced and danced until I ached all over, my knee grinding into dust. 

Bored, Boris eventually remarked, “I take it you didn’t pick him for his technique, Alex.”

“I picked him for his curls.”

“He reminds you of Hans.” Boris rolled his eyes. “At least Hans was talented. This one can barely perform jeté.”

Beauchamp grinned. “But it’s fun to watch him try.” 

It went on until dawn.

When it was all over, I couldn’t find my clothes. Someone had tossed them behind the piano in the corner, and in one final act of degradation they stood and watched me go looking for them. 

When I finally found them, the men left the studio. Beauchamp said he would be waiting outside. Vladimir didn’t say anything at all. I thought I saw guilt in his eyes but in the harsh light of day I realized it was revulsion. For me or for himself I wasn’t sure.

Beauchamp helped me into the taxi. We drove back to the apartment without saying a word to each other. 

He broke the silence. “I hope you didn’t mind that I invited a few friends to join us.”

My nostrils flared. I kicked the seat in front of me. 

“You had fun though, didn’t you?” He nudged my elbow playfully. “Oh come on, you had a little bit of fun, admit it.”

I stared blankly at him. I didn’t cry and I wasn’t angry. The part of me that could feel anything on behalf of my body had curiously vanished. There was me and there was my body. They were not the same thing. 

Beauchamp became very soft all of a sudden. “You were such a good boy. You know I appreciate all you do for me, right?”

The taxi driver, a younger man this time, glanced at me curiously in the rear view mirror. He seemed to understand English. I thought he was about to speak but instead he turned up the music on his radio to drown us out.

“Oh Harry, don’t be like that. You should be flattered I want to show you off. Those were important men. I wouldn’t introduce them to just any boy. You’re special.”

He bounced his knee, agitated by my continued silence.

“I know. You prefer it when it’s just the two of us, don’t you? You’re young and romantic about these things. It’s understandable. I won’t share you with anyone else, I promise.” He gathered me up in his arms and kissed my head. “Let me treat you tonight. I’ll buy you a new suit and take you to the finest restaurant in Kiev. You can dine with princes and captains of industry. Would you like that?”

“Dunno.”

Beauchamp stroked my cheek. “What would you like, my pet? Tell me. I’ll get you anything you want. Anything at all. A new phone? A computer? Please don’t be cross with me. You know I hate it when we fight.” 

“Can I have one of your sleeping pills?”

He seemed relieved to finally get an answer out of me. “Of course! Thank you for asking this time. See how much easier it is when there are no secrets between us?”

“No secrets,” I agreed.

I spent the rest of my days in Kiev in and out of sleep. Beauchamp let me take as many pills as I wanted and for once I was actually grateful to him. 

He didn’t bring me to the studio to work as his assistant. That was never his intention. He left me alone during the day and had sex with me at night. He broke his promise. Some nights he brought friends. 

I was too tired most afternoons to do my homework but I sat in the little blue room anyway. I found a penknife in the drawer of the desk. I turned it over in my hand and examined it. It was sharp. I held the handle and crawled under the desk. Slowly I chipped away at the wood and carved my name in a spot where no one would find it, not even Beauchamp. 

***

When I got back to school I went to Jebsen to collect the rest of my things from Louis’ room and move them into Wolf House. 

I found all my belongings in a cardboard box outside his door. My stuff had been picked over by the other boys on his floor, all my valuables gone. Louis left it out here because he couldn’t bear to have me in his room again. He couldn’t bear to look at me. I sympathized. I didn’t even want to look at myself. 

I dropped my box off in my assigned room at Wolf House. My roommate was already asleep. I was about to get ready for bed when I changed my mind. I wasn’t tired and I didn’t have any more sleeping pills. 

I walked the moonlit path to the studio. 

The feeling of being in a studio after what happened in Kiev should have made me ill, instead I locked the studio door and relished my aloneness. I would never get away from that studio in Kiev. In some ways, I would probably be trapped in that room for the rest of my life. I had to make it mine again. 

I warmed up at the barre, avoiding my refection in the mirror. Then I practiced the choreography for the winter showcase, only I changed parts. Fouttés relevé became grand pirouettes and sissones became emboîtés. I stopped listening to Beauchamp’s corrections in my head and started listening to the music. 

Pacing around the studio, I decided to work on jumps next. They had always been my weakest technical element. I never got enough height, never reached full extension in the air. Louis said it was because I was afraid of falling.

I wasn’t afraid anymore.

I ran across the room taking long fast strides and jumped, jumped with everything I had. 

I did it. 

I actually did it.

But coming down I lost my footing and hit the floor face first with a loud crack. My bottom lip split and my nose gushed blood. 

Dizzily, I lifted my head and looked in the mirror. Half my face was a mask of blood. It ran down my white shirt and pooled on the grey flooring. 

I laughed. 

I began to laugh hysterically, out loud, like being broken and covered in blood was the funniest thing in the world. Maybe it was. 

Dancers were taught to take great care with their bodies. The irony was that it was only when I stopped caring about my body that I could jump higher than I ever had before. 

It was amazing what I could make my body do now that I no longer cared if I broke it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went to a dark place. I'm sorry! I know I'm not going to be winning any friends with this chapter but I needed to complete Harry’s character arc. There’s only one “past” chapter left (the rest of the fic takes place in the "present"). Originally, I had made this the last “past” chapter, but I thought it was too bleak and didn’t give enough insight into who Harry was about to become. 
> 
> I'm really looking forward to posting next week's "present" chapter. I’ve been torturing Harry for so long I'm dying to show him some kindness. Thank you for hanging in there!


	17. Chapter 17

LOUIS / PRESENT

 

We were a few weeks away from dress rehearsal and tensions were running high.

Harry’s presence in the company had brought the production unprecedented levels of attention. Tickets sold out seconds after going on sale. The list of celebrities and nobility who would be in attendance rivaled that of a royal wedding! I was so terrified of fucking up I had a recurring nightmare of falling offstage. Rehearsal had become my life. When I wasn’t practicing with Gigi and the rest of the company during the day, I was logging extra hours in the studio at night to perfect my solos. However, it was hard to concentrate on work when every five minutes I had someone come up to me complaining about Harry. 

Niall was furious with him for going above his head and giving notes to the obo player. Zayn was still bitter about losing his solo. Liam was pissed because Harry refused to let them use his face on the programme, suggesting they use an abstract painting instead. Maurice was basically a prisoner of war. 

Even the girls had snapped. He’d changed both of their solos multiple times and demanded they rehearse on his erratic schedule. They took powernaps between punishing sessions of partnerwork. They looked like ghouls every morning with pasty complexions and dark circles beneath their eyes: Two dead swans. 

I don’t know how I escaped his wrath considering we hated each other, but I went about my business without incident. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Harry watched me dance from behind his dark curls, his green eyes following me around the studio like a homing device. I braced myself for some bitchy comment about my technique but it never came. Sometimes he would even praise my dancing. 

“Not terrible, Louis.” 

“Fuck you very much.”

Still, it was hard to ignore the chorus of complaints that were growing, especially when Liam cornered me in my dressing room before rehearsal to address the issue head on. 

I was putting on my beaten slippers when he entered the room, cheeks red with fury.

“This has to end!” Liam grabbed the bottle of water off my vanity, splashing the floor before it reached his lips. He hobbled around the room, too angry to be self-conscious about his limp. “He’s changed every aspect of this production to his liking. Now he’s refusing to do any interviews to promote it! I had him booked on The Morning Show! Television, Louis. Television about dancing that’s not Strictly Come Dancing. This could have been huge for us!” 

“Is this the part where I say I told you so, or…”

He was shaking, he was so mad. I’d never seen someone as reserved as Liam lose control of his emotions like that. He personified ballet with his composure and effortless grace, no matter how hard he worked to conceal the effort it took to maintain such poise. All of that had fallen away. Harry had stripped what little civility he could feign.

“I’m staging an intervention.”

“He’s not a drug addict, Liam, he’s just a twat.”

“Everyone’s agreed to participate, even the girls, and you know they’ve always had a soft spot for him.”

“He won’t go for it,” I said, looking at my tired reflection in the mirror. “We’ve all tried talking to him. Nothing works.”

“We’ve all tried talking to him individually. If the company comes together in one room, he’ll have no choice but to back down. Strength in numbers.”

I had to admit, the idea of giving Harry a public flogging gave me a twinge of satisfaction. I could already picture his defeated expression as he was told “no” by a room of his peers. 

“Are you in?” Liam asked. “This won’t work without you. I need your support.”

“I’m in.”

I checked my phone on the way to the auditorium. I had six missed calls from Jeffrey. I hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. I wanted to see him, I really did, but by the time I got home at night after a grueling rehearsal I just wasn’t in the mood. It was normal, I told myself. I was close to dress rehearsal. Work was demanding. So what if I wanted to spend more time in the studio? So what if I didn’t feel like seeing my boyfriend? 

I stuffed my phone in my knapsack. 

My solo in Act One was my most important solo in the ballet and it might be the most important solo of my career. Even if I didn’t fuck up, even if it went well, that didn’t change the fact that everybody was there to see Harry, not me. I had to be twice as good just to be noticed. There were no guarantees with this job. I might never get the chance to dance the iconic part of Prince Siegfried again. I had to make my mark. I had to be perfect. 

When Maurice scheduled an extra rehearsal to work on the solo in the auditorium, I was thrilled. The more time I had to work with him the better. 

I stretched on the cool, scuffed stage floor before stripping to my tights. The lights above me were hot and bright. I couldn’t see the seats in the auditorium, which was a good thing. I could pretend I was performing for an audience. Maurice was in the orchestra giving the pianist some instruction. He climbed onstage to join me. I extended my hand and helped him up. 

“Thank you, Louis.” He dusted himself off and adjusted the collar on his billowy purple blouse, half open with medieval laces down the front. He always looked vaguely like he was in costume. If this was what the man wore to rehearsal I wondered what he would wear opening night!

“You look dashing tonight, Maurice.” 

He fluffed his white pompadour. “Oh, you.”

His poodle Bijou ran circles around my ankles. I picked her up and kissed her wet nose. “And you! Are you dancing with me?” She squirmed. I set her back down and watched her leap into the wings.

I stood center stage with my arms above my head. As the music started and I began to move across the stage, Maurice stopped me right away. He didn’t issue a correction but a slight tweak to the choreography. 

I didn’t mind making the adjustment but I was a bit irked that it was happening so close to dress rehearsal. I wanted to be polishing and perfecting what I’d already learned, not absorbing new movement. 

It wasn’t just one part either. It was the tone of the whole piece. Maurice got behind me and mirrored the tempo and transitions. I looked at him quizzically and he turned away, avoiding my gaze. He was usually quite jovial but now he was serious. There was no playful teasing, no praise, no funny Swiss Maurice-isms I’d grown to love over the past few months. 

I took his notes and danced. I was fighting the muscle memory from the choreography I’d learned previously. It was like struggling against a strong wind.

I repeated the solo again and again but couldn’t get the hang of the new choreography. This was a nightmare! I leaned over my knees and grunted with frustration. There was a disconnect between my body and the music. I was lost in the choreography, untethered. The count was off. I was no longer dancing to the music but inside it…

A chill went down my spine. 

My head snapped up to the back of the theatre where a lithe figure stood in the shadows watching me.

I ended the rehearsal early, my heart pounding with rage. Maurice folded his hands in front of himself demurely. He knew that I knew and was too embarrassed to admit it. 

When I was finished, I didn’t exchange pleasantries with Maurice or thank the pianist for his time. I didn’t even pull on my joggers. I marched straight to the studio to find Harry.

The room was dim. Only half of the overhead lights were on. He wasn’t rehearsing. He was waiting for me.

He was in white—white tights and a white tank, his loose, feminine curls arranged artfully on his porcelain shoulders. Innocently, he smoothed a hand along the barre. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was an angel. He wasn’t tired or sweaty, probably because he spent the last hour doing nothing but watching me in the auditorium. 

I wiped the sweat from my brow. “I suppose you think this is funny? Fucking with my solo? Fucking with my career?”

He crossed his arms and eyed my body appraisingly. “You look good doing my choreography.”

I moved toward him, my slippers hissing over the vinyl flooring. “We’re weeks away from dress rehearsal.”

“So?” He shrugged, his green eyes steady.

“I don’t have time for your games! I was worried enough about getting this performance right and now I have to worry about learning new choreography too! I’m not like you. I’m not some world famous prodigy. I could lose everything I’ve worked for in an instant. There are a hundred dancers dying to take my place. Do you understand how much pressure I’m under?”

Harry cocked his head and smiled. “I like to watch you struggle.”

I slapped him. Hard. Leaving a bright red mark across his pale cheek. He shifted his tender jaw, amused by the pain.

“Tell Kenneth and Maurice that I can go back to doing the old choreography. Admit that you were wrong.”

He laughed. “I’m not wrong. You’ll dance the solo my way or I’ll make sure you don’t dance at all.” 

I lifted my hand to strike him again and he caught my wrist, twisting my arm behind my back in one swift motion and smashing me up against the mirror. 

The mirror cracked, slicing our reflection in two. 

“I knew you’d put up the hardest fight, Louis. That’s why I saved you for last.” 

When I tried to wriggle free he twisted my arm harder and I yelped with pain. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, hot and quick. His soft laughter returned at my predicament. 

“Just say you’ll do it, Louis,” he panted. “Say you’ll dance the solo my way and I’ll let you go.”

“Never.”

He would have to break my fucking arm if he wanted me to submit to him! I pushed back against him with my full weight, my arm screaming with pain. When my body made contact with his, Harry jolted. 

He was hard.

We both froze and stared at each other in the mirror. 

He was still gripping my arm but otherwise remained motionless. 

For the first time in my life I was speechless. 

Sweat trickled down my neck and pooled at my collarbone, eventually absorbed by my cotton t-shirt. 

Harry’s heartbeat thudded against my back. 

I glanced at him over my shoulder through heavy lashes. I noted his parted lips, red and moist, freshly licked. 

He looked down at our bodies and pressed himself against me. Feeling how big he was through the thin fabric of our tights made me dizzy. 

His free hand reached up to my face. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand before letting his fingers trail down the column of my throat. It wasn’t the first time he had me by the throat. I didn’t know if this was a threat or affection but I threw my head back and purred at his touch. I could feel his excitement mounting. I parted my legs and pressed back against him. He hummed with approval, releasing my arm to place both his hands firmly on my hips. 

This was my chance. 

Without warning, I flipped around and pinned him against the mirror, facing me. The fine bones of his wrists threatened to snap in my hands like rose stems. His pulse skipped dangerously beneath my fingers and I squeezed his wrists tighter. 

His eyes went wide with anger. 

“You don’t like losing control, do you?” I said.

He flushed. “Let me go.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” I fucking meant it. He was a menace and he was going to stay put until I could figure out what to do with him. 

My gaze wandered over his milky complexion and the chiseled contours of his face. His black lashes beat like moths’ wings, the green eyes beneath them glassy and yielding. It was his mouth, those surreal plump red lips that really betrayed his lust. There was no hiding what that mouth wanted.

Acting like he wasn’t thinking of fucking me mere moments ago, Harry sneered, “My ideas are better than Maurice’s. You know it’s true. Do my choreography.”

“Kiss me.”

Harry’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “Will you let me change your solo?”

“Maybe.” 

Oh, how the mighty had fallen!

I had only kissed Harry once in my life, a chaste kiss between teenagers, but it was the most erotic experience of my life, a heady mix of friendship and desire that ruined me for every kiss that came after. Seven years and a dozen relationships later I realized that I must have loved him. It wasn’t just teenage infatuation. It was real. Now I was face-to-face with that impossible love again and I was in no way prepared to relive the experience. 

His lax curls fell forward and curtained my face. I couldn’t resist turning to nuzzle them. His breath on my cheek was sharp and uneven. I faced him, letting my bottom lip gently brush against his. He let out a tiny gasp. Immediately, I released his wrists and wound my arms around his narrow waist. I meant to keep him pinned against that cracked mirror and take his mouth in a rough, punitive kiss. I was still furious after all. But I had too much tenderness for him. As cruel as he was, some greater force inside me said: hold him, be gentle with him. 

To my surprise he didn’t struggle or sneer. All the tension left his body and he allowed himself to be held. His eyes were wide with hope. Innocence. He was my Harry again. The boy I knew before our fight, before Kiev. The brave boy who had gathered all his courage to kiss me in the rafters. 

“My beautiful boy,” I cooed. “My favorite dancer.”

He smiled shyly. “Am I really your favorite dancer?”

I pressed my forehead to his. “Oh Harry, you’re breathtaking when you dance, when you smile, when you laugh, when you cry… even when you hurt me.” I swallowed. “You’re my favorite everything. You’re perfect to me. You always have been.” I nosed his cheek and moved to kiss him.

Tears pricked his eyes and he turned his head. “I’m not perfect.” 

“Harry? Harry?” I said softly. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I lifted his hands to my lips. 

His body went rigid, his tears stilled. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

He stepped away from me and my limbs cooled in his absence. 

Harry flicked on the remaining studio lights and they blinded me. He carded through the CDs by the stereo like I was invisible, like the conversation we just had never happened. 

My heart twisted with hurt and anger. I felt so exposed. I told him everything, things I could barely admit to myself, and he completely shut me out. What did I do wrong? Why won’t he talk to me? 

He cued up the music in stony silence. 

When the music started and he was about to rehearse, he finally acknowledged me. 

“I have the studio booked for the night.” 

“Is that your way of telling me to leave?” I put my hands on my hips.

He glanced at the door expectantly before dipping gracefully into a plié. 

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was midnight. I was exhausted. 

As Harry danced, I searched the studio floor until I found his sweatshirt. I balled it up into a pillow and lay down.

Harry opened his mouth to say something but I cut him off. “I’m not leaving you.”

“I’ll be here all night,” he said flatly. 

“Then I’ll stay all night.” 

He sighed. 

The floor was cold and hard, but Harry’s sweatshirt was soft. I buried my face in the fabric and breathed in the delicious scent while he moved across the floor. It smelled of lilac and copper and…

“Are you sniffing my sweater?”

“No!” 

I was torn between making him talk to me, and watching him dance. I went with the latter. Not by choice. He was hypnotizing, fearless in his movements, giving his body over so completely that it was like a god was in possession of these limbs and not a mortal man. Even when he was young and his technique was terrible, he was still artful. There had always been some part deep inside of him longing to be expressed. And now that his longing was married to technique, he was magnificent. 

I dozed off before he was done. Late into the night I heard the lights click off. With my eyes still closed, I made a move to get up but Harry stopped me. 

“Go back to sleep.” He drew a blanket over me and carefully slipped a pillow beneath my head. 

He slept in the studio often enough that he brought a blanket and pillow with him. I don’t know why this made me so sad but it did. 

Then he got underneath the blanket with me and tucked us in. He was relaxed in the dark and sweetly concerned for my comfort. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I stared at the lovely shadowed planes of his face. 

Please kiss me, I thought. Please, please, please. 

He moved into me, but it wasn’t to kiss me. Instead, he nudged me onto my side. “Go back to sleep,” he repeated. 

My eyes fluttered shut and he slipped a hand up the back of my shirt. My stomach leapt. Gently, he began to stroke my back, the way we did to each other when we were boys and too shy to do anything else. His fingers started at the nape of my neck and moved down my spine in a tantalizing circular motion. 

“Harry,” I mewed. 

Half asleep I heard him whisper, “I’m not perfect, Louis, but you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Bijou is the only one who gets a kiss in this chapter. But things are taking a turn for the better. The next “present” chapter picks up right where this one leaves off, with H&L waking up together in the studio.
> 
> Next week is the last “past” chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST PAST CHAPTER! This also marks the end of Harry’s POV. The rest of the fic will be in Louis’ POV.

HARRY / PAST

 

_Dear Harry,_

_It’s been weeks since I’ve seen or heard from you. You haven’t responded to any of my emails or letters. I’m worried about you. Why won’t you talk to me? Didn’t you enjoy our trip? I wanted to thank you again for accompanying me to Kiev. I’ve told all of your instructors what a good boy you were and how much you impressed me._

_You have so much potential, Harry, but you and I both know that potential isn’t enough. You’re talent is raw and unrefined. You are far from where you need to be when it comes to technique. I don’t normally do this, but I would like to invite you to come live with me in Paris over the summer so I can mentor you personally. It’s unorthodox but I think you would benefit from the individualized attention and my connections here in Paris. I don’t think a big noisy classroom is the right learning environment for a sensitive boy like you. I know what you need, Harry. I understand you._

_If you’re obedient and you work hard under my tutelage, I can give you the career of your dreams. I can get you a spot in any company in the world._

_I do hope you’ll consider my offer. I would hate to see all that wonderful potential go to waste!_

_Eagerly awaiting your reply._

_Yours,  
Alex _

_P.S. Forgive me, my pet. I never meant to hurt you. Things will be different this time. I promise x_

The card had a waxwing with a red berry in its mouth on the front. 

Madame Lesauvage crossed the studio and swept a strand of grey hair into her bun. “Well?”

We were alone in the studio. Beauchamp had asked her to hand-deliver the card to make sure I read it. I had deleted all his other emails and thrown out his previous letters unopened.

“He wants to mentor me in Paris this summer.”

“Oh Harry, that’s wonderful!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and placed an arm proudly around my shoulder. “Are you going to call him or write him back?”

“Madame, can I ask you a question?”

She nodded. 

“What’s the best dance company in the world?”

“Well, the Paris Opera Ballet is the oldest, but the Bolshoi is by far the biggest—the word ‘Bolshoi’ is Russian for ‘grand’—and it has the most decorated history. It’s where Tchaikovsky premiered Swan Lake.” 

I considered this for a moment. 

She crossed her long thin arms, her sharp elbows protruding from her bodysuit like two arrows. 

“You should take this offer very seriously, Harry. You’ve improved a lot these last few months, but training with someone like Alex could be the difference between dancing for a company like the Bolshoi and dancing for some tiny regional company in Leeds.” 

“He wants me for the whole summer.” 

She brushed the curls out of my eyes and lifted my chin. “I know, dear. You want to go home and see your family and friends, don’t you? But these are the sacrifices we must make for this profession. I was taken from my parents when I was just seven to train at the École de Danse de l’Opéra in Paris.” 

Madame had been a prima ballerina and danced for companies all across Europe, including the Bolshoi. 

“I’ll think about it.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Harry. Every boy in school would kill to take your place.”

“That’s what they said about my trip to Paris and Kiev…”

“And they were right. Look at you now! You have the chance to be privately mentored by Alexander Beauchamp for an entire summer. I can’t think of a greater honor.” 

“I’ll answer him,” I said, trying my best to smile.

Instead of throwing out the letter like I did with all the others, I stuck it in my back pocket.

***

I dragged my feet to the cafeteria. I wasn’t hungry but I’d skipped breakfast, and dinner the night before. I needed to put something in my stomach to get through the day. 

I ambled through a sea of students in the corridor. Crowds seemed bigger and busier since I got back from Kiev. I no longer had the luxury of ignoring other people and their bodies in relation to my own. Their voices were amplified in my head. I dipped into their conversations and their petty relationship dramas. That used to be my voice. Those used to be my dramas. Now it was like they were all living in color and I was in black and white. I was a ghost on another plane of existence. Tuned into a different frequency. 

In the cafeteria lineup I got my tray and picked up a premade plate with steamed chicken and vegetables from beneath the warming lamps. 

As I wandered around in search of a seat, Louis’ face immediately jumped out at me. He must have just come from the showers. His cheeks were rosy and his hair soft and fluffy. He was in the middle of telling a story, eyes alight with mischief, his mouth in a lopsided grin. He was surrounded by friends—Zayn, Liam, Gigi and Eleanor—and he was happy. I did that, I thought. He gets to be happy and have a normal life because I protected him. It was the only thing I liked about myself. 

I looked around awkwardly for a place to sit. Every seat in the cafeteria was taken except for one. 

They wouldn’t have saved that seat for me, would they? None of them had spoken to me since I got back from Kiev. Lines had been drawn and they all chose to side with Louis. But the empty chair right next to Louis gave me pause. Maybe they had changed their minds about me. Maybe they were giving me a second chance.

I walked up to the table and their laughter turned to silence. 

“Is it okay if I sit here? I won’t bother you.”

Louis faced Eleanor, “Did you hear something?”

Eleanor looked right through me like I was invisible. “No, I didn’t hear a thing,” she said, keen to play along with his cruel game. She and Louis bickered constantly, but she would get into a knife fight for him if he asked her to. Louis inspired that kind of loyalty in people. 

“Zayn, did you hear something?” 

Zayn put his feet up on the empty seat and said, “Nope.”

Liam was uncomfortable but would never challenge Louis. 

Gigi did acknowledge me but dutifully said nothing.

My cheeks burned as the whole cafeteria watched me walk away, rejected by my former friends. 

I took my lunch to the courtyard. It was too cold to eat outside but it was either that or eat standing up with everyone staring. I sat under a tree, the wind nipping at my fingers. My hands got so cold I couldn’t hold the fork to finish. I fed the vegetables to the winter birds that had crowded around me.

Then I took out Beauchamp’s card. I re-read it a dozen times.

_I know what you need, Harry._

_I understand you._

_Forgive me, my pet._

_I never meant to hurt you._

_Things will be different this time._

***

I went to the studio to practice for a while before class started. It was these private practice sessions that were the most useful to me. Now that I had been at RBS for almost a year I had a good sense of my strengths and weaknesses. I wanted to stamp out those weaknesses. The corrections from my instructors, which made me cry when I first came to RBS, had no impact on me now. I needed a much firmer hand. I fashioned myself into my best and worst teacher.

I stripped down to my tights and examined myself in the mirror. 

“Ugly.” 

I practiced my turns, disrupting the momentum of my pirouette by spotting too slowly. 

“Stupid.”

I moved into an arabesque and lost my balance.

“Pathetic.” 

Next I tried to land a jump but my knee was shaky and I stumbled. I screamed at myself in the mirror and punched my thigh over and over until it left a throbbing welt. 

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” 

***

That afternoon I passed Zayn on campus. He was carrying a stack of books under his arm. He wore a crème cable knit sweater that made his glossy black hair and dark eyes stand out from across the courtyard. He was on his way to Jebsen and I was walking to Wolf House.

He jogged up to me and grabbed my wrist. “Harry, I’m sorry about lunch today.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. Louis… He so hurt. He’s so angry.”

“I get it.”

We stood there uncomfortably for a moment. 

“We can hang out sometime if you want,” he said.

“No, Louis wouldn’t like that.”

Zayn began to walk away when I stopped him. “Wait!”

He swiveled around. 

“Can I borrow some of your books?”

***

My roommate at Wolf House moved out shortly after I moved back in. I had night terrors and he couldn’t sleep through the sound of me screaming, so he moved in with a friend. Now I had the room to myself. It wasn’t as nice as Louis’ room. It was tiny and the window faced a brick wall. But like my room with Louis, the wall was dotted with mementos of Beauchamp. Next to my bed I had pinned up the programmes from Swan Lake and the contemporary ballet we saw together in Kiev. Next to that I pinned up the card he sent me with waxwing on the front devouring a red berry. I don’t know why I liked looking at these things. Maybe it was because they hurt me, and like my knee in the studio, the pain kept me company. 

Zayn knocked on my door a little past eight that night. I was surprised he actually showed. He brought the books I asked for. _Anna Karenina, War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, Doctor Zhivago, The Brothers Karamazov,_ and a biography of Tchaikovsky. 

“What’s with your interest in Russia all of a sudden?”

“I’m going to Moscow to dance for the Bolshoi.”

Zayn raised his heavy brow and ran a hand through his hair. “Harry, it’s great that you’re thinking big, but maybe you should start out with a more realistic goal, like a regional ballet company.”

“No, the Bolshoi is the best. It has to be that company.”

He continued to look at me like I was crazy. 

“How is he?” I asked, plopping down on the bottom bunk. 

“Sad mostly. He puts on a brave face when you’re around but he’s still not over what you did to him.”

I fingered the dull edge of one of the novels. “He’ll get over it. It was just a stupid trip.”

Zayn sat next to me on the bed. “You think he cares about the trip? If anyone else had done this to him he’d have been over it by now. It’s you he cares about. You were his best friend and you stabbed him in the back.”

“I know.”

“Why’d you take this from him?”

I thought back to all the disgusting things I let Beauchamp and his friends do to me. “I deserved it.”

Zayn was chilled by my response. 

“You can still fix this, Harry. He wants you to.”

“Yeah, he was really reaching out at lunch today.”

Zayn took the book from my hands. “He was being a brat because, well, he’s a brat. But he wants you back he just doesn’t know how to trust you again. Can’t you apologize?”

I curled my hands into fists. No, I would not fucking apologize. I was not sorry. I did the right thing whether Louis knew it or not. I knew it. That was all that mattered. I wasn’t about to give up my last shred of dignity. My sacrifice for Louis was all I had left of my old self. 

“I think we both know he’s better off without me.”

Zayn didn’t say anything because he knew it was true.

***

In class the next day, I noticed an empty space next to Louis at the barre. He placed a second water bottle on the ground next to his and carefully hung an extra towel on the barre above it. 

Did he mean for me to take this spot? Had he saved it for me? It might have been a peace offering, a silent hint at forgiveness. 

I approached him and he held his breath.

I wasn’t going to fall for this twice. I kept walking and took a spot at the back. 

Class was monotonous, crowded and distracting. It gave me a headache. The second the bell rang I rushed to the door. Beauchamp was right. I didn’t belong in a busy classroom. I needed privacy if I was going to get any real work done.

Louis was in my way and instead of waiting for him to exit through the door, I knocked him over.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

“Did you say something?” I sneered, stepping past him. 

Before I got much further down the corridor, I felt sharp icy fingers dig into the back of my neck. 

Madame.

“Have you written back to Alex yet?”

“Not yet.”

She dragged me into her office, which had once been Beauchamp’s office too. My stomach churned thinking about the things I did to him in this place.

Madame went over to her desk and pulled out a piece of crisp white stationary and a pen. She dragged a chair over and told me to sit.

“You are going to respond to Alexander’s letter right now,” she said in her severe French accent that became more pronounced the angrier she got. “You’re being rude, Harry. He was very kind to take you on two trips last semester. You owe it to him to at least be polite.” She leaned back in her chair. “You know, the last student he mentored for the summer, Hans Faust, never returned to RBS. He continued to train with Beauchamp and landed a spot with the Paris Opera Ballet before his classmates had even graduated.”

I knew that Hans, like me, had been taken on one of Beauchamp’s special trips, but I didn’t know that he then chose to live with Beauchamp. If anyone knew what had happened to him, they might have judged him for that decision but I understood it. After what Beauchamp did to me I felt like I had been ripped from this world. I didn’t belong anywhere. The only person who knew what I’d been through, who understood me, was Beauchamp himself. 

He was the poison and the antidote. 

I imagined Hans in Beauchamp’s apartment in Paris for the first time, scared and alone, just as I had been. I’d never met Hans but I’d also never felt closer to anyone in my life. I wanted to reach back across space and time, hold his hand, and tell him, “I’m here too. I exist. I understand you. You’re not alone.”

I picked up Madame’s gold-plated pen.

_Dear Mr. Beauchamp,_

_Thank you for your letter and for taking me to Paris and Kiev last semester. It was terribly kind of you. I will never forget the experience._

_However, I’m afraid I have to decline your invitation to Paris this summer._

_You’re right. I am talented. I do have potential._

_I’m going to dance for the best ballet company in the world._

_I’m going to be the best ballet dancer in the world._

_I’m going to be a better dancer than you ever were and I’m going to do it without your help._

_Sincerely,  
Your Special Boy_

I folded the piece of paper and stuck it in an envelope. I handed it to Madame. She smiled, waiting to hear what I had decided. 

“Mail it. Burn it. I don’t give a fuck.”

I walked out of her office and back to the studio, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week’s chapter picks up with H&L waking up together in the studio, and deals with the intervention. I'm really excited for the next couple chapters! Thank you for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up right where the last “present” chapter left off, with H&L asleep together in the studio.

LOUIS / PRESENT

 

When I woke up I thought I was fifteen again. Harry was sound asleep beside me, his curls in my face, his limbs wrapped tightly around me like a koala bear. I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to. I didn’t want to. I shifted slightly and he nosed my cheek. The studio was cool but we were cocooned so snugly beneath the blanket that our bodies burned feverishly. I twisted to face him. He furrowed his brow at the disturbance and held me tighter, eyes closed, his fingers twining around the hem of my shirt.

“Harry, wake up,” I whispered in his small, shell-shaped ear. “It’s morning.”

His eyelids fluttered open and it took him a moment to remember where he was. And whom he was with. 

He rolled off of me immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Harry sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I must have been dreaming.” 

“You must have sweet dreams.” I wanted to stoke that small kindle of intimacy a little longer. 

We were still beneath the blanket, our legs touching. What did this mean? Were we friends now? We were friends. No, maybe not friends, but we weren’t not friends. 

He lay back down and I quickly curled up next to him.

“I usually sleep on a mat,” he said. “I doubt this floor is good for our backs.”

My back was killing me. I felt like I’d been trampled by horses. “I feel good.”

Light was streaming in from the windows creating small pools of heat on the studio floor. I pressed my palm on the floor above his head. “I don’t want to go to rehearsal.”

“No rehearsal this morning.”

I grinned. “You wanna to skip it?” I could take him for a quiet breakfast or a cup of coffee. We could sit in Regent’s Park and talk all morning. That would be nice.

“No, I mean we have a meeting with the company in Studio A.”

“You usually skip those meetings.”

He rolled onto his side to face me. “Liam said I had to attend.”

Liam. The intervention. Harry had absolutely no idea what was coming. 

“Let’s skip anyway,” I urged. 

“I can’t. I made a promise.” He got up and pulled on a sweatshirt. He left his hair down and tucked it neatly behind his ears.

I felt sick over what was about to happen. I wanted to warn him but I didn’t know how. 

Everyone was already in Studio A waiting for us. It wasn’t the whole company, just principal dancers and soloists, plus Niall, Liam and Maurice.

We weren’t sitting on the floor but on foldout chairs, in a circle. I took a seat next to Eleanor. She had written out her grievances on a notepad in loopy cursive. She and Gigi had always given Harry the most leeway. They babied him at school and maybe they thought they would baby him when he joined the company, but judging from Eleanor’s copious notes this was not the case.

Gigi, who was normally direct and straightforward, pretended to be distracted by something outside. Zayn too glanced down at his phone when Harry said hi. 

Harry hated company meetings. He hated being in groups in general. His being there was already stretching his good will. Everyone’s strange reactions had sent up a flare, and I could see him grow visibly confused then agitated, sitting on the edge of his seat and bouncing his knee. 

I didn’t think this situation could possibly get any worse. Then Jeffrey walked in.

The chairs next to me were occupied, so he dragged one screeching across the circle and made the dancer playing Benno von Sommerstern move over. 

“What are you doing here,” I whispered. “It’s principals and soloists only.”

Jeffrey bristled at the slight and opened his side bag. Like Eleanor, he had a set of notes. “I’m one of the claimants.”

“You watch too much of that bloody American court T.V.”

Harry was openly staring at us.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” Jeffrey asked. 

“I’ve been working.”

“At one in the morning? I went to your flat. Where were you last night?”

“I fell asleep in the studio.” It was the truth. 

“How did that happen? Did you, like, pass out while dancing?”

“No, I lay down on the floor and slept.”

“Why would you do that?” Jeffrey’s voice was getting incrementally higher. 

“What does it matter! Can’t you see we’re about to have an important meeting here!”

“Don’t snap at me!”

Liam cleared his throat. He had his clipboard in his lap. He leaned forward and crossed one knee over the other. “So, let’s get started.” He sounded like a camp counselor about to give us a lecture on poison oak. “Harry, you are a phenomenal talent and greatly admired here at the company. What we’re about to discuss is as much for your benefit as it is everyone else’s. Some people have come forward with concerns about their working relationship with you and they don’t feel that they are being heard.”

“Some people?” Harry said, his features betraying no emotion. 

“We’ll go around the circle and you can respond at the end.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll go first.”

I was shocked Harry hadn’t stormed out the door.

“Harry,” Liam went on. “It makes my job very difficult when you make unreasonable demands about the programme and the billboards.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Is it unreasonable to demand some creativity? You wanted to slap a photo of me on all of the promotional material, like a tacky department store advert. Swan Lake premiered during the birth of the modern art movement. Would it not be apt to use some artwork that evokes the revolutionary spirit of the time?” 

Liam was already losing his composure. “It’s not your call!”

“I deserve a say in how my own image is used!” 

Gigi jumped in. “Do I deserve a say in my own rehearsal schedule?” she spat. We were going out of order now. People were getting riled up and didn’t want to wait their turn to have a go at him. “We’re supposed to be equals! You don’t get to dictate when and how often I rehearse. Do you get some sick pleasure out of torturing me?”

Harry’s face went red. “I’m not trying to be cruel, Gigi, I just want this production to be perfect.”

Zayn lifted his head. “What about me? You took away my solo to spite Louis. Was that not cruel?”

Harry wrung his hands. 

Eleanor tossed her notes aside. “Fuck you, Harry! This has nothing to do with the production and everything to do with you thinking you’re above us. I don’t care how much power you had at the Bolshoi. You’re in London now and this is a fucking democracy. You don’t get to critique my dancing. My pas de deux is with Louis, not you!”

Harry’s chest was heaving. He glanced at the door.

Maurice, riding the wave of Eleanor’s tears, burst in with emotion and gave us his whole life story starting with his childhood in Zurich, and ending with a bitter scolding. “In my entire career I have never been disrespected as I have by you, Mr. Styles.” He pulled out his monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “You question and insult my judgment. I should be treated with the respect befitting my experience. This is too much for a man of my station to bear!”

It wasn’t Jeffrey’s turn but of course he decided to pipe up and defend Maurice. “You shouldn’t be ordering around an esteemed choreographer like he’s your damn butler!” Then he addressed the room. “He got Kenneth to drop me from the production!”

“Exactly. So why are you here?” Harry shot back.

I held Jeffrey in his seat. 

Harry turned to Niall, who had remained still as a statue. 

“I’m sorry, Harry, but they’re right. You’ve crossed a line. I let you speak with the orchestra even though it’s virtually unheard of for a dancer to do so. Then you went behind my back to give them notes contradicting my direction. You took advantage of my kindness…”

Harry raked a hand through his hair. “Niall, I respect your position. You understand the libretto, but I understand its history. I didn’t know how else to make you hear what I hear! I had to prove it to you.” He looked around the room wildly. “Let me prove it to all of you. I understand this ballet better than anyone!”

“No,” said Liam firmly. “This is not your production. This behavior has to stop.” 

“Do you all feel this way?” Harry’s voice cracked. 

Our faces remained stony. 

Liam left it to me to deliver the final blow. “Louis, I know you have a lot on your mind.” 

Nobody was more critical of Harry’s behavior than I was. They all looked at me with anticipation.

I couldn’t quite believe what I was about to say. “I agree with Harry.” 

Maurice fell back as though he’d been shot. Niall was stunned. Eleanor, Zayn and Gigi gave me icy glares. Jeffrey was out for blood.

Nobody was more surprised than Harry himself. 

I wasn’t sure that I did agree with Harry but I was sure that I couldn’t stand to see him attacked, not for another second. Yes, Harry was an evil dictator, but he was my evil dictator! 

I stood up. “Look, Harry was with the Bolshoi--the cradle of Swan Lake--for six years. He’s the jewel of Moscow! He knows what he’s talking about. He’s not just any dancer. He’s a genius. I believe in his vision and so should you.” 

I thought Gigi was going to pummel me. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Traitor!” Eleanor hissed. 

“Louis…” Maurice began. “What about your solo?”

“I prefer Harry’s interpretation.” It was official. I’d lost my mind.

Harry’s green eyes shone like dark emeralds. A pleased smile spread across his lips.

Maurice got up and walked toward the door, his silk scarf sailing on the air behind him. 

The room erupted into shouts and jeers, at me, and at Harry. One by one other people began to storm out. I tried to talk to them but nobody would listen to me. They brushed past me, some calling after Maurice, others washing their hands of the whole situation.

Harry and I locked eyes. 

I started to walk over to him when Jeffrey stopped me. He wasn’t one for the silent treatment.

“What the hell was that?”

I tried to put my hands on his shoulders to calm him down, but he slapped them away.

“You were supposed to defend me, Louis!”

“I couldn’t sit there and let the whole room attack him. It’s not right.”

His eyes widened and he tossed his blonde head. “No, the way he’s treated this company, the way he treated me, was not right. This was fair. He deserved it.”

The studio was empty now. Jeffrey and I were alone.

“Who were you with last night?”

“I told you, I was in the studio!” 

“That’s not what I asked!”

“Fine. I was with Harry.”

Jeffrey’s chin wobbled like he was about to cry but he didn’t. “Are you fucking him?”

“No!”

“Do you want to?”

I paused for too long. “No.”

“We’re through.”

He shoved his notes into his bag. 

“Jeffrey, please don’t do this. I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not. You were waiting for this moment because you didn’t have the guts to break up with me yourself.”

Okay, I really didn’t give Jeffrey enough credit. He could be quite perceptive when he wanted to be. 

“I didn’t want things to end like this.”

“He’s going to hurt you again, Louis.”

“We’re not--”

“Stop it. I see the way you look at him. He doesn’t look at you the same way. There’s something wrong with him. He only knows how to use people.” Jeffrey became thoughtful. “I cared about you. I want you to know that.”

Jeffrey left me but his words didn’t. 

***

I had rehearsal later that afternoon in the auditorium. I went to my dressing room to change into a fresh pair of tights. My body still ached from sleeping on the floor all night and my dancing that day would certainly suffer for it. 

The company was supposed to be rehearsing the first act. I was expecting the stage to be filled with corps dancers, the stage manager and Maurice. There was only one person standing there. Liam.

For once, he didn’t have his clipboard in his hands. He wasn’t on the way to solve some administrative crisis. He was uncharacteristically listless, leaning on his cane. 

I approached him carefully. 

“You know, Louis, I would give anything to be able to dance again.”

Liam never did this. He never dwelled on the past or talked about his injury. He tried to stay positive and look forward. 

“I love this company,” he said. “It’s all I have left of my old life.”

I dropped my bag. “Liam, what’s wrong?”

His gentle brown eyes crinkled under the stagelight. “I’m going to be fired.”

“What?”

“The intervention was my last chance to salvage this situation and I failed.”

“What situation?”

“I didn’t tell you this, Louis, because I didn’t want you to go off on him, but I was put on probation shortly after Harry joined the company. I was supposed to control him.”

“Kenneth should not be blaming you for this! It’s not your fault.”

“He’s my responsibility.”

“We can still fix this.”

“Maurice quit.”

I stumbled backward and put my hands on my head. I was not expecting that. Maurice’s departure would be a huge blow to the production and it was too late to push back the performance dates. 

“Why did you do it, Louis? Why did you side with Harry?”

There was no one answer. There were a multitude of tiny answers, flickers of the person I thought I knew. “I trust him,” I said.

“More than me and all your friends here at the company that stuck by you the last seven years?” 

“It’s just a feeling I have.”

“Harry broke your trust before.”

“I know that,” I said quietly, embarrassed. 

Liam began to slowly walk off stage. His limp was worse than ever, not from dampness or exertion but from the weight of carrying his heavy limbs.

“When do you find out?” I called after him.

He turned. “I have a performance review at the end of the month.” 

Liam left and I dropped to the ground and hugged my knees wondering if I’d made the hugest mistake of my life. Maurice was gone. Liam might be next. The thought of Liam losing this job after he’d already lost his dance career was too much to think about. Guilt pressed against my chest until I couldn’t breath. 

I stared at the seats in the auditorium and tried to picture the audience opening night—hundreds of faces all there to see one dancer. Liam was wrong. This was Harry’s production. From the audience to the choreography to the orchestra, he’d enveloped this company like a dark cloud. Now he had me too. How did I let this happen? 

I hugged my knees tighter and felt a small prick on the back of my neck. I slapped it thinking it was a bug. Then I felt another, and another. I looked around. I was alone. It kept happening. I stood up and shook my shirt. 

“Up here,” I heard.

Harry was sitting in the rafters throwing rosin at me. 

“Come on.”

I went into the wings and climbed the scaffolding to join him. 

“What are you doing up here?” I said crawling toward him, the wooden planks creaking beneath my knees. 

“Nothing.” His legs hung over the rafters and he kicked them absentmindedly like a child. “Rehearsal’s cancelled.”

How many times had Harry done this? How many times had he watched choreographers and administrators quit, get fired or forced out because of him? He treated his colleagues as recklessly as he treated his own body. 

“Maurice quit and Liam might lose his job,” I said. 

“I know, I heard.”

“Are you just going to watch as this whole production goes down in flames?”

He grinned. “Welcome to the dark side, Prince Siegfried.”

“I’m serious. Jeffrey broke up with me. All my friends hate me.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Have I?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you trusted me.” 

“I want to but you make it… difficult.”

We were silent for a moment. 

“You defended me.” Harry beamed. 

“Temporary insanity.” 

“You said I’m a genius.”

“That’s a figure of speech.”

“No, it’s not. You think I’m a genius and the jewel of Moscow.” 

“Harry, focus!” I scooted closer to him. “I know you don’t want Liam to lose his job. Talk to Kenneth.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

“You’re the only one he listens to!”

The rafters swayed under our combined weight. Harry stretched backward unafraid, like he was on a swing. 

“You owe me, Harry.”

“I thought I owed you a kiss?” 

He was lying back now tantalizingly docile, blinking up at me slowly. His naked wrist fell beside my thigh. 

“You do.” I swallowed. Oh God, I was so weak! 

He licked his lips and pouted in a practiced motion of seduction that made me feel wanted and teased all at once. 

I hooked a hand behind his neck. His eyes looked right past me. The girls had entered the auditorium. 

Gigi was in her leotard and Eleanor in jeans. I was about to call out to them when Harry bolted upright and covered my mouth. “Shhhh.”

They were still fuming from the intervention. Gigi threw her knapsack on the stage and continued what must have been a long tirade to an emotionally exhausted Eleanor.

“I’m telling you,” said Gigi, “Louis has been in on this from the beginning. Those two are up to something.”

“No, that’s impossible,” Eleanor argued, lazily laying back, watching Gigi mark her solo. “Louis hates Harry!”

Harry had removed his hand from my mouth and was listening intently to their conversation. 

“We should go,” I whispered. He brushed me off.

“Open your eyes, Eleanor! They’re fucking!” Gigi exclaimed. 

We stared at each other, both blushing furiously. 

“No way,” Eleanor said. “I have over fifty texts from Louis about how much he hates Harry. He practically wrote me a treatise.” She pulled out her phone. 

I covered my face thinking back on what I may have written. 

“‘Harry is the devil.’ ‘Harry is ruining my life.’ ‘If I ever start acting like Harry, shoot me.’ ‘OMG Harry’s giving ANOTHER speech about Tchaikovsky. Wake me when it’s over.’ ‘Rehearsing Act IV with Harry. Death can’t come soon enough!’ ‘Hey gorgeous, what are you doing later? P.S. Harry’s the worst.’” 

Gigi stopped dancing and threw up her arms. “Could he be any more obvious? He’s so obsessed with Harry it’s embarrassing!”

Harry had rolled onto his stomach. He was giggling so hard the rafters’ shook. 

I poked him. “Shhh.”

“Louis would never cheat on Jeffrey,” Eleanor said flatly.

“He would for Harry,” Gigi retorted with absolute certainty. “If Harry wanted him, Louis would drop to his knees so fast it would make your head spin.”

Harry was crying with laughter. 

Eleanor twirled her long dark hair thoughtfully. “Do you think Harry feels the same way?”

Gigi licked the sweat from her upper lip. “I don’t know. I can’t read him.” Then she changed the subject. “But if those two have joined forces then so should we. I’m not rehearsing with either of them until they agree to our demands!”

“Can we do that?” she asked.

Gigi shrugged. “Maurice is gone, the assistant choreographer’s a pushover. Let’s show those fuckers who’s boss.”

Eleanor jumped up. “I like the way you think!” She extended her hand and started dancing my part in my pas de deux with Gigi. They took turns, both of them dancing mine or Harry’s part to help the other rehearse. 

Harry and I climbed down from the rafters as quietly as we could and tiptoed out of the auditorium, slowly opening the door and letting it fall closed with a gentle click. 

Together we walked over to Studio B. 

“What now?” I said.

“I guess we have to rehearse with each other.”

I smirked. “I have twice as much partnerwork as you. Do you think you can dance Gigi and El’s parts?”

“You gonna make me wear a tutu?”

“Obviously.”

He smiled and held the studio door for me. 

“Um,” I began, slipping out of my sweats to my tights underneath. “I’m sure this goes without saying but, it’s not true, what Gigi said. I’m not obsessed with you.”

Harry pulled his sweatshirt off over his head. “Of course not.”

We began with my pas de deux. I was supposed to start in a kneeling position with my arms extended. I stepped over to Harry.

“I would ask you to get on your knees, Louis, but I don’t want to give you whiplash.” 

I tackled him to the ground playfully hitting him. “I told you! It’s not true!”

He was laughing hysterically again. 

“It’s not funny!”

“Oh come on. It is. Just a little.”

Harry was a surprisingly effective white swan. He knew Gigi’s part better than she did. He had a long neck, and rather delicate limbs for a male dancer and was able to execute the choreography with grace.

“You’ve missed your calling as a prima ballerina, Harry.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, bracing himself on my shoulders before moving into an arabesque. 

My more compact muscular body didn’t lend itself to the female choreography as well.

I spun into Harry’s arms and nearly knocked him over. “Watch it! You’re like a bull in china shop.”

“Shut up, I’m beautiful.” 

I pretended it was a huge inconvenience to be rehearsing without Gigi and Eleanor, but in reality I’d never had so much fun in rehearsal. With the girls, I had to pretend to desire them and the movement sprang from my technical ability. But when I danced with Harry, when I had my hands on his waist, the movement sprang from me. I wasn’t performing at all. It was the purest kind of dancing. 

Harry really did know Swan Lake inside and out. I’d always liked the ballet but never enough to get at its deeper meaning. Harry had all sorts of ideas on how I might play Siegfried that had never occurred to me. His interpretation of the white swan was really subversive and daring. Gigi played the part to the letter, but Harry’s interpretation was at once more seductive and more tortured. 

He had lots of ideas, tons, and all I had to do was ask him a question about his vision and he’d start talking a mile a minute, his clear green eyes alive with light. I didn’t even understand what he was talking about half the time. He kept going on and on about these Russian letters and Tchaikovsky’s life. It sounded crazy but he was so excited, I became excited too. 

Harry had written down and compiled all of his research and ideas into a book, with primary sources, diagrams and photos from every production of Swan Lake since 1877. He had been working on it a little bit each day since his time with the Bolshoi and he said he hoped to get it published.

He wasn’t a prima donna. I mean, he was a holy terror and went about persuading people the wrong way, but he really did care about this ballet. His vision was based on a deep understanding and appreciation of the libretto and the original choreography. It was inspiring. It was noble. 

But as we were toweling off and pulling our sweats on over our tights, I had to point out the obvious. Harry’s vision, as compelling as it was, was impossible. Even if we could convince the assistant choreographer and Kenneth, the rest of the cast hated us, and Eleanor and Gigi, the two most important cast members, were on strike. 

“They’re reasonable,” he said, turning out the lights to the studio. “They’ll come around.”

As we locked the studio door, the girls came stomping down the corridor having just finished their own rehearsal in the auditorium. 

I extended my arms. “Ladies.”

Gigi gave me the finger. “Suck my dick, Tomlinson.”

Eleanor threw her sweaty tights in Harry’s face.

I looked to Harry. “You’re right. They’re very reasonable.” 

Harry and I sat on the Royal Opera House steps together, our warm bodies quickly cooled by a north wind. I pulled out a cigarette from my breast pocket. Harry couldn’t believe that I still smoked. He tried to snatch the lighter from my hands but I was too quick. I lit the cigarette and tucked my lighter into my coat.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing more about your ideas,” I said.

“Yeah right.” He looked down sheepishly. Tendrils escaped his bun and flew into his eyes. 

“No, really. You said you’ve written the definitive book on Swan Lake? Why don’t you come by tonight and show me some of your research.”

“You don’t think it’s boring?”

I took a drag and exhaled out the side of my mouth. “No, it’s definitely boring, but you make it interesting.”

“Just you and me? In your flat?”

I tried to be casual about it but my heart was jumping out of my chest. “Just us.”

He smiled shyly. “Okay, yeah. I’ll go home and shower and eat first.”

I put up my hand. “I’ll take care of dinner.”

“Pizza?”

“I’ll cook us something. I’m a proper grown up now, Harold!”

Harry flagged a taxi and stepped off the curb. “See you tonight.” 

I practically flew home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Liam. I hope I wasn’t too hard on him. I needed this subplot to raise the stakes. I didn’t want the conflict to be oversimplified.
> 
> Next week's chapter will take place entirely at Louis' flat ;)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m posting two chapters this week, one now and one on Friday. 
> 
> Just a reminder that all chapters going forward take place in the “present” and are told from Louis’ POV. 
> 
> Also, I realize people probably expect the events in this fic to unfold in a certain order: Louis finds out everything, *cue romantic music* he and Harry get together, then have sex etc. I thought that would be too predictable. I’m going in a very different direction (no pun intended). There is still another major plot twist and it’s going to be a complicated, messy route to a resolution. 
> 
> Special thanks to jacintugh for her ballet school knowledge, which helped me shape part of this chapter.

Once I got to my flat I began cleaning from top to bottom. Christ, the place was a disaster. Jeffrey’s shit was everywhere. I was picking up his colorful underwear out of every nook and cranny. The washroom was filled with products from his extensive beauty ritual. Creams, cleansers, toners. How much body glitter and spray tan did one boy need? I collected it all into a bag to give back to him when he was less furious with me. 

Then I scrubbed the kitchen until the stovetop and counter gleamed. I looked in the fridge. I had purchased some nice salmon steaks the day before. I could make wild rice with capers and grilled vegetables to go with it. It wasn’t the most original meal, but Harry would be over soon and I didn’t have much time. I still needed to shower and cull my bookshelf to make sure I seemed smart.

I tore off my nasty sweats and tossed them in the hamper in my bedroom. I stared at my bed for a minute. I didn’t want to be presumptuous but I didn’t want to be unprepared either. I stripped the sheets and put on fresh ones. I checked the nightstand to make sure I had condoms. I did. 

I showered. 

I didn’t really know what to wear. I decided to play it cool and go casual with a long-sleeved T and black skinnies ripped at the knee. It had begun to drizzle out. It was almost nine o’clock and Harry hadn’t arrived yet. I was worried he would cancel. 

I seasoned the fish and put on the rice.

My bookshelf was in a worse state than I thought. Dozens of tacky mass-market paperbacks stared back at me with their embossed typography and juvenile titles. I began to pull them down one by one. The sports books had even dumber titles. He was going to think I was illiterate! I might as well have a shelf full of coloring books! I left the John le Carré novels, my dance biographies and the classics. My copy of Finnegans Wake had never been opened. Fuck it. Did anyone have the patience for Joyce? 

I didn’t have anywhere to stash the rejects so I just stuffed them at the bottom of my hamper. My shelf was practically empty now, but I figured a few smart books were better than loads of stupid ones. I placed some plants and knick-knacks there to fill out the space. 

Harry still hadn’t shown up. I felt like a wanker. What if he stood me up? Maybe he only accepted my invitation to fuck with me. I wouldn’t put it past him.

I went out on the balcony and had a smoke, watching the rain come down harder and harder. Lightning flickered in the distance and my bones shook with the crack of thunder that followed. Down below I saw the top of a black umbrella. Behind me I heard the buzzer. 

I quickly stomped out my cigarette and ran inside to push the button to open the door downstairs. 

He knocked so softly I wouldn’t have heard it unless I was standing right by the door, which of course I was.

His hair was curlier because of the humidly. It reminded me of the wild curls he had in his youth. In his arms was a giant binder. His research. I took it from him and set it down on the coffee table. It weighed a ton. He also brought dessert in a small baker’s box.

He was wearing a long dark pea coat. I took it from him and hung it up. Underneath was more black. Black pants and a silk black button down. He looked like a posh undertaker. The only burst of color came from a gold ribbon tie he wore around his shirt collar. 

“You dressed up,” I said. 

“This is just how I dress.”

“Oh, well, um, you look nice!” Having Harry alone at my apartment had rendered me incoherent. 

“Thanks.”

“I like the tie. It’s… different.”

He glanced at himself in the full-length mirror by the door. “They’re on all the runways this season. This one’s Hermes.”

“Really? That sounds expensive.”

“Three hundred quid, I think.”

“Three hundred! It’s just a bloody a ribbon! My mum’s cat wears the same one!”

“They’re really on trend. All the men in Milan wear them.”

“I’ll tell the cat. She’ll be chuffed.”

Harry grinned. 

I led him into my apartment. He didn’t properly see it the last time he was here since there were so many other guests. Now he strolled around with his hands behind his back and took it all in, one ugly piece of furniture at time. I cringed at my own taste. 

“You have a lot of stuff,” he said, running his hand over my DVD rack, video games and the guitar in the corner. 

“Not really,” I said, from the kitchenette. I took the rice off the burner and started grilling the fish and the vegetables. 

“More stuff than me.”

“You live like a serial killer. No offence.” 

“None taken. Hannibal’s my favorite show.”

“I bet.”

I set our plates on the coffee table. Harry cracked open his tome and discussed his research while we ate.

“Why is this ballet so important to you?” I handed him a cloth napkin and he draped it across his lap. 

“Dunno. I guess because it’s mercurial. The story, the choregraphy, it’s not static. It’s alive. It lives and breathes and changes. It’s like anyone who touches it can inhabit it… I feel like it’s my story.” 

“Is that really why you chose the Bolshoi when you graduated?”

His mouth was full and he nodded. “Yes, that and because the Bolshoi is the best.” 

I still remembered the end of our final school year. Eleanor, Zayn, Gigi, Liam and I were all offered contracts by the Royal Ballet Company. Gigi and Liam were even offered multiple contracts, but chose to stay in London. 

Harry had the most offers of any student in RBS’ history. Artistic directors from all over the world, including Paris, came to the school to court him but he was only interested in one company. The Bolshoi. He waited and waited and waited but they refused to even meet with him. The Bolshoi only tapped members from its own academy, trained in the Vaganova method, to join the company. They had foreign born guest dancers over the years, like Madame, but only one foreigner had ever been made a principal dancer, an American, David Hallberg in 2011. Hallberg was an established danseur from the American Ballet Theatre. Harry was not trained in the Vaganova method and he was not an established danseur. 

A week before our convocation, Harry did the unthinkable. He contacted each one of the artistic directors who had offered him a contract and turned them all down. We thought he’d lost his fucking mind. Newspapers that had been following Harry’s story put him on the front page of the arts section. “The English Boy with a Russian Dream Risks it All.” The artistic director from The Bolshoi was so intrigued by what Harry did, he got on a plane to London the very next day.

I was standing outside the studio when Sergei Filin and the Russian envoy arrived. Harry wasn’t even nervous. He knew. He knew that if he could get that man alone in a room to watch him dance, he would hire him on the spot and he was right. 

Harry, the boy who got into RBS with no formal training, the worst dancer in school who transformed himself into the best, was offered a contract at a company that had never, in its two hundred year history, offered a spot to a foreign student. 

He was the exception to every rule.

“I wish I knew how you did it, Harry.” I licked the back of my fork.

“How I did what?”

“How you became what you are. There’s something about you… You have something nobody else does. I just can’t figure out what it is.”

Harry’s expression hardened. “Maybe it’s the exact opposite. Maybe I’m missing something.”

“You sold your soul. I knew it.”

“Something like that.”

Harry flipped through the scanned letters from 1876, all neatly organized in plastic sheaths by date and author. He’d travelled to several archives across Europe to find them but he’d done most of his research at the Russian State Library in Moscow.

He translated some of the letters aloud. I could tell from the clauses and the nuanced expressions that Harry’s Russian must have been very good. 

“How long did it take you to learn Russian?” I asked, stabbing at a few capers that escaped my fork.

“About a year. I hired a tutor.”

“That’s impressive. I wish I spoke a second language.”

“You speak French.”

“Not well.” I frowned. 

“I’ve always loved your French.” 

We were quiet for a minute. Harry kept turning the pages in his binder. 

“I’m really intimidated by you,” I blurted out.

“Why?” 

This was so hard for me, but I had to say it. “You’re talented and famous and now you bring this research here and I find out you’re some crazy academic too! I don’t even know how to talk to you anymore. I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.”

Harry looked down. “You called me stupid.”

“What?”

“When we were in school. You said I was stupid.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I had to wrack my brain before I even remembered what he was talking about. 

Our fight. 

“Harry, I didn’t mean… We were arguing.”

He shook his head and set down his fork and knife. The rain outside hammered on the window.

“No, you meant it.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was such a little shit when I was in school and Harry really hurt me that day.

“I wanted to hurt you back,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. Even after what you did, I shouldn’t have said it.”

He wrung his hands over his plate. 

I touched his research, all of it carefully laid out and annotated with his feminine handwriting. 

“Is that why…?”

He looked at me. “I didn’t want to be stupid anymore.”

I was doubled over with guilt. There was still so much pain between us. It was like we had never left that dorm room. I hadn’t gotten over any of it. Maybe Harry hadn’t either.

“I’m so sorry, Harry, but nobody has ever hurt me the way you did that day. You were my best friend. It crushed me, absolutely crushed me… Tell me you’re sorry for what you did to me. Please.”

“Louis…” His lips parted in anguish. “I wish none of it had ever happened. That’s the truth.” It looked like he wanted to say something more. Something was still bothering him. Instead of speaking, he surprised me by taking my face and kissing my forehead.

He didn’t say the words “I’m sorry” exactly but wasn’t that just semantics? A weight had been lifted. The past was in the past. We were both kids back then. Everyone’s done something in high school that they regret. Was I really going to hold the trip to Kiev against him forever? What purpose would that serve? Harry was here, he obviously wanted to make amends and I wanted my best friend back. 

“Friends,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it. “Friends.”

We finished dinner and I cleared our plates. Harry had brought dessert: two custards in a pink baker’s box. I untied the string on the box and carried it over to the coffee table. 

Unlike Jeffrey, Harry had a huge sweet tooth. This was the richest dessert I’d ever eaten. I liked watching him lick the sugar powder off his fingers.

Harry went through his vision for the production point by point. He’d even made me a copy. He’d thought of everything. Every detail mattered, from the choreography to costumes. He’d managed to exert his influence in most of these areas already, but there were still a few people who needed convincing, the girls, for one and Niall and now, since Maurice had left, the assistant choreographer Joni. He asked me if I would back him up. I said I would on the condition that he spoke to Kenneth and made sure Liam didn’t get fired.

“Deal,” he said. “It’s nice doing business with you, friend.” 

I might have just made a deal with the devil but it was fun hatching a plan like this. I liked being on the same side as Harry for once. I missed this. 

We were sitting on the couch: me curled up and Harry leaning back, one leg crossed easily over the other. He was explaining the differences between Václav Reisinger’s original choreography from the 1877 production and Petipa and Ivanov’s choreography from the 1895 revival. He spoke softly, the warm lamplight making his cheeks glow. I tried to pay attention to what he was saying but I was too busy staring at his mouth. He would touch my knee when he was making a point and I kept asking him to clarify so he would keep touching me. 

We were so deep in conversation I’d forgotten to make tea or coffee. I only realized my faux pas when Harry stood up and stretched. 

“I should go. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Wait! We haven’t even had tea.”

“I shouldn’t. It keeps me up.”

It was still thundering out. Rain came down hard and fast like a steel wall. 

Harry looked down at the street. “Hope I can catch a taxi in this weather.”

“Spend the night,” I said boldly.

There was a heavy silence between us. 

“It wouldn’t be appropriate.” 

“We used to sleep together every night,” I said, the memory still so tender and dear to me.

“We were just boys then. It’s different now.”

“We slept together in the studio.” I clasped his wrist. “You didn’t even need your pills.”

He paused. “I’ve always slept better beside you.”

“Come.”

I placed a hand on the small of his back and lead him into my bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post the continuation of this scene on Friday.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the continuation of the last scene. I've taken a risk with this chapter and I'm nervous about posting it. I've written a long note explaining my choices at the end.

“Do you still sleep on the right side of the bed?” I asked, trying to conceal the excited quiver in my voice. 

“Do you still prefer the left?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

I drew my shirt over my head while Harry carefully unbuttoned his. He placed it on the back of my desk chair along with his gold ribbon tie. We both took off our pants. We were wearing similar black boxer briefs but mine were sporty, cotton, with a blue band while his, like his shirt and tie, were silk. I had seen his undressed body in the studio earlier that day, but in this moment, in my bedroom, he was a different creature to me. The darkness of the room had made his limbs appear softer, his flesh supple like the fine silks he wore. 

He turned down the covers and felt the fresh sheets. 

“Were you expecting this to happen?” he asked.

“I wanted it to.”

He climbed in bed and I took a moment to admire his body before I climbed in after him. It was a miracle this body. The most celebrated body in the whole world. It looked smaller and more fragile when it wasn’t in motion, like the precious beauty of a hummingbird at rest. 

We both got under the covers. 

Harry was right. We weren’t boys anymore. We were men. There was no coyness between us--just want and a longing that would not be ignored. At least I couldn’t ignore it. I wanted to touch him. When I reached out to stroke his cheek he gave me a pointed look, his chest rising and falling heavily. I had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. Did he stay over just to sleep or did he want more? 

I could always tell what he was thinking when he was younger. He had a cheeky grin plastered across his face when he was happy or amused, and pout when he was troubled. Now he was unknowable. The only thing I knew for sure was that he was here, half naked, in my bed. 

I flirted shamelessly. I couldn’t help myself. On my side, propped up on my elbow, I smiled, batted my eyelashes—he always liked my long lashes—and fawned over him. I let my fingertips graze his tattoos and guessed the meaning of each one. He had a lot so this was the perfect game. After going over the tattoos on his arms and delicate hands, I traced the butterfly on his diaphragm with my finger. 

“Metamorphosis,” he said. 

“You think you’ve changed?”

“Haven’t I?”

“You were always a butterfly to me.”

Harry tried not to smile at this line but I could see his dimples.

He shifted closer to me and I felt myself get hard. He felt it too. He didn’t move away. I pressed myself against his hip and he turned to face me, his breath on my lips. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he spoke: “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Always.” 

“Von Rothbart isn’t my favorite character in Swan Lake.”

I burst out laughing. Of course Harry would choose this moment to start talking about work! 

“Let me guess,” I said. “Odile?”

“No. My favorite character is Prince Siegfried.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Why didn’t you choose to play him?”

Harry closed his eyes. “Because I wanted you to be my prince.” 

My heart. 

I leaned over and drew the blanket off of him. He became shy and bent his knee. I kissed the scar that ran along it, my hand moving up his thigh.

“Louis…”

“I can’t wait for you any longer.”

“You’ve been waiting for me?”

“Since I was fifteen.” 

I pushed his dark hair back from his forehead. Harry’s lips parted in anticipation. I was desperate to kiss him now but I didn’t want this moment to end. I wanted to savor wanting him, savor being wanted by him. Every part of him was an invitation, from his wet mouth to his lax limbs and flushed complexion.

Slowly I dipped down, a hand on either side of him, framing his lithe body. I could feel the heat from his cheeks radiating as I came near. My lips brushed his and he gasped. They were as soft and plush as I remembered them, and Harry still kissed like it was his first time, full of fear and excitement. I lingered on his lips before I deepened my kiss. 

He didn’t kiss me back. 

His green eyes were mysterious and opaque as sea glass. My lips moved against his and he lay there, far away, as though he were Sleeping Beauty waiting to be awoken. This only made me want him more. I slipped a hand behind his neck and pressed my mouth hotly to his, my other hand resting over his heart. Slowly, very slowly, I felt his body come alive beneath mine. Yes, yes, yes, I thought as his tongue filled my mouth and his arms circled around my waist. 

I straddled him and felt that he was now as hard as I was. We moaned into each other’s mouths. I began to roll my hips, rubbing against him as we kissed.

I pulled back to gaze at his face to make sure he was real and this was really happening. He was. It was. I kissed his cheeks, his eyelashes, his ear. I mouthed his neck, a little rougher than I’d intended. Harry responded with a raspy cry. 

“Turn over,” I said in a low voice. 

He hesitated for a moment and then complied. I brushed his glossy dark waves away from his back and kissed between his shoulder blades. With his muscles relaxed the peaks and valleys of his back were smooth and soft. I kissed lower and lower, straddling him lower and lower.

When my lips reached the flat plane of his back, my cock pressed through the fabric of my underwear against his ass. I moved there for a bit, feeling through the friction of the fabric what it might me like to move inside him in this position. 

I needed him now.

I couldn’t go through the motions of foreplay like I would with any other lover. Harry wasn’t any other lover. There was too much history between us. I needed to be as close to him as possible. I needed to be inside him. Now. Right now.

I shifted off of him and tugged at his silk boxers. He hesitated again, then raised his hips and let me remove them. My pulse quickened at the sight of his naked body. He was breathtaking, lying there so sweetly, so innocently, I didn’t know whether to have sex with him or burst into tears. 

On my knees, I pulled down my own boxers and unhooked them from my ankles. I climbed on top of him, careful not to place my full weight on him. My cock fell against him lightly as I leaned down to whisper, “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he said.

I kissed the corner of his mouth. Gently, I ran my hand down his back and glided my fingers between his cheeks to feel for his rim. He was tiny and silky there and would need to be prepped. The thought of opening him up with my fingers was such a turn on I became dizzy and had to steady myself.

I reached into the nightstand for the lube. Harry watched me out of the corner of his eye. I coated two of my fingers and pushed his thighs apart with my other hand.

He was so sexy like this, splayed out and waiting for me. I barely knew how to begin. I wanted him to love it, really open up and need it, so I started lightly and just played with him a little, carefully stroking his rim. 

Harry fisted the sheets. 

“You’re gorgeous,” I cooed, teasing his rim in a soft circular motion. “I love touching you… You like this?”

“Yes,” he said. 

Harry was a very reserved lover. He barely spoke. He didn’t move. I glided a finger over his rim and began to slip it inside him. Harry’s entire body tensed and I stopped.

“What is it?” I asked. 

“Nothing,” he responded coldly. “Just do it.”

“Do you want to change positions? Do it on your back while I kiss you?”

“No. Do it like this.” He buried his face in the pillow and refused to face me.

I touched him again and his muscles clenched.

“Harry, what’s wrong? I thought you wanted to.”

I climbed off of him and Harry turned around. There were tears in his eyes. He sat up, drew up his knees and hung his head between them.

“I’m so sorry, Louis. I’ve ruined this like I ruin everything.”

What was he talking about? Why was he so upset? I put my arms around his shoulders. “You haven’t ruined anything!”

“You’ve been perfect tonight and I fucked it all up. I hate myself,” he said, turning his rage inward with a ferocity that scared me. 

“No! This is great. Just being with you is great. We don’t have to do anything.”

“But I want to!” he cried. “I want to more than anything!” 

“We can try something else. What do you like?” I said quietly. “Do want to do it on your side, so I can hold you and kiss your back?”

“I dunno,” he muttered.

“Do you want to… To me?”

Slowly, he lifted his head, eyeing my body the way he’d eyed up that sugary dessert earlier. “You don’t like it though, do you?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t like it it just wasn’t a role that came naturally to me. I usually attracted naive young things like Jeffrey. I hadn’t had many lovers who I wanted to give myself to. It was different with Harry. I wanted to give him everything. It wasn’t how I pictured our first time together, true, but that was unimportant to me now. I craved intimacy between us so badly. I wanted to please him, and if this was what he enjoyed I knew I would enjoy it too. 

“Harry, I want to make love to you. I want to make you feel good and come with you. I don’t care how we do it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I took his face in my hands and kissed him. This time he wasn’t fearful, hesitant or reserved. He hooked an arm around my waist and kissed me back. I bit his bottom lip and growl escaped his throat. He pushed me down on the bed. I felt his large hands explore my chest and settle between my legs, pressing them apart. 

He’d done a complete 180. He was not the boy I knew in school but the man I knew in the studio. Powerful, confident and, above all, commanding.

“How do you want me?” I said, kissing the words onto his lips. 

He took in my body hungrily. “On your knees.”

I was about to turn over, when Harry turned me over and positioned me himself. 

His fingers skimmed the backs of my thighs and I shuddered with pleasure, parting them for him. He wanted them wider and told me so.

“That’s it.”

Excited and slightly terrified, I reached for the lube that was next to the pillow and pressed it into his palm. 

He grinned. “I don’t need it.”

“Harry, I, um… Do be gentle. I have to dance tomorrow.”

He kissed the back of my head. “Don’t worry.”

The next thing I felt was his tongue--a long a hard lick right over my rim. 

I yelped. 

Harry pushed my cheeks apart and licked again.

“Fuck.” I fell forward onto my elbows. 

“Speaking of things we’ve been waiting for since we were fifteen…” he purred.

I let out a shaky laugh. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Louis…” His fingers sank into my fleshy hips as he licked me. “Remember those cute grey tights you used to wear in school?”

“Thought maybe you wanted to borrow them,” I breathed. 

He pressed his lips against me and murmured. “I wanted to rip them off and fuck you.”

Jesus. 

Harry began lapping and kissing my hole and I thought I was going to lose my damn mind. I could feel my cock painfully hard swinging beneath me. I was going to come from just this, from just his mouth. Harry didn’t bother touching it because he knew he didn’t have to. 

I was sweating, my hair sticking to the sides of my face. 

By the time he slipped a finger inside me, I’d gone completely crazy and started fucking back against his hand. 

Harry was delighted. “You like this.” It was a statement not a question.

He refused to move his finger because he enjoyed watching how desperate I’d become. 

I moaned and he quickly withdrew his finger. I whipped my head around, infuriated. 

“I don’t want you to come yet.”

He was going to torture me. I should have known. I felt his heavy cock brush past one of my cheeks and I couldn’t take it any more. 

“Harry I—”

I felt his tongue again and cried. His whole mouth was on me, the tip of his tongue darting in and out of me. Then I felt his fingers again. Two. 

“Yes. Oh God. Open me up,” I hissed. 

Harry licked his lips smugly. “You’re so needy, Louis. I didn’t know you’d be like this. I have to say, I love this side of you.” 

I was not normally a submissive lover but I wanted him too badly to argue. 

He scissored his fingers giving me the stretch I needed and continued licking around my rim. I was sure I was going to have a heart attack. 

He placed a large hand on the small of my back to steady me as he pumped his fingers faster carefully gauging my reaction to make sure I didn’t come. 

“Yes,” I moaned, arching my back. 

Harry stopped and held his fingers in place. I heard him rummage around in my nightstand and then the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Finally! I’d never been happier to hear that sound in my entire life.

Harry was less arrogant now. He wanted it. He was thinking about his own needs. I spread my thighs a little wider and presented myself to him properly. As he put on the condom it was time for me to torture him. I reached back and touched myself, feeling where Harry’s hands hand been and slipping my own fingers inside, giving him a show.

“Louis, you’re so…”

I desperately wanted to hear the end of that sentence but I don’t think Harry knew how to put what he was feeling into words. He showed me instead. 

He removed my hand and I felt the head of his cock breach my rim. It was a totally different sensation than his fingers, wider, fuller and completely overwhelming. I didn’t think I could take anymore but I wanted more. 

Heavy-lidded, I glanced at him over my shoulder and he was looking down at my body with amazement. 

“More,” I pleaded. 

Harry blinked back the sweat in his eyes and pushed in a little further. I stretched around him. No amount of prepping could have prepared me for this sensation and he wasn’t even all the way in yet.

He pressed in a little further and I still couldn’t take all of him. My muscles seized. I whined in frustration and bent all the way over until my arms were flat on the mattress, and splayed my thighs apart even further. 

“That’s right,” he said, stroking my belly. “Let me in.”

In one smooth motion he pressed forward until our bodies were flush. I felt like I was being spilt apart. He was pleasure and pain and I submitted to him completely. I was his, he owned me, he could do whatever he wanted with me. 

“Harry,” I sighed. “Harry.”

His hands gripped my hips and I knew he was getting ready to really fuck me. I moved back against him eagerly, begging for it, like I did with his fingers. 

His thrusts were slow and shallow at first, but even the slightest movement elicited cries from me. 

Then, without any warning, he slammed into me hard and fast. His hips snapped back and he thrust into me again with even more force. He was so strong it knocked the wind out me. Pleasure rippled throughout my entire body until my knees shook.

We locked eyes. He was sweaty and focused, his mouth open and red, filthy as sin. 

There was darkness in the way Harry made love, just like there was darkness in the way he danced. I didn’t understand it but I wanted it, all of it. I was scared of him and at the same time I wanted to give myself to him completely. It didn’t make any sense but then again nothing with Harry ever did. 

He fucked into me and I made sounds I’d never heard come out of my own mouth before. 

Harry tightened his grip on my hips and moved in and out of me harder and faster.

“Louis, my Louis, you’re better than I ever imagined.” 

I moaned into the mattress.

“You’re so obedient. Such a good boy,” he panted, curling an arm across my chest.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I breathed. 

This was music to his ears. He thrust into me so hard, my knees gave way and I collapsed. He placed all of his weight on me and pressed my wrists onto the bed so I was completely at his mercy. 

It was like he was choreographing our lovemaking. 

He was getting close. I could feel the urgency in his thrusts. “Come with me.” He sank his teeth into my shoulder.

He pressed into me deeply, pulsing, going deeper and deeper. 

I threw my head back. “I’m close.”

“Good.” His hand smoothed over my throat and he became surprisingly tender all of a sudden. “Kiss me. I want you to kiss me when you come.”

I turned my head and his lips caught mine.

Hot come spilled from me onto my stomach and the sheets. Harry chased my orgasm coming inside me with a rough jolt. Our bodies shuddered and shook together. We writhed around entangled until we were both completely sated. 

He stayed inside me, and hugged my shoulders. I loved the feel of his weight on me. I reached behind me and touched his face.

“Harry, that was… Not what I expected.”

He kissed the back of my neck as he eased out of me. I winced a little at the loss of him. He took care of the condom and threw it in the rubbish bin next to the bed. 

“What were you expecting?”

He curled up beside me and we faced each other, kissing even though we were too out of breath to kiss. Harry’s lips were more important than oxygen. 

“I don’t know. You were very authoritative and a bit naughty. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised.”

He smiled lazily and rubbed my thigh. “I never thought you would give yourself to me like that, not in my wildest dreams.”

I felt myself blush. “I wouldn’t. I mean, not for anyone but you.” 

Harry was charmed by this revelation. “Wait here,” he said. 

He found his underwear at the foot of the bed, slipped them on and left the room. 

I stretched out on the bed and tried to figure out what just happened. I could still feel the imprint of Harry’s large hands on my hips. I could still feel him inside me. 

Harry came back into the room carrying a cup of tea. 

I sat up and took it from his hands. “What service!”

“You were very concerned that we didn’t have tea earlier.”

He remembered how I took it—a splash of milk, no sugar. He even brought me a biscuit! Bless him.

Harry wouldn’t stop fussing over me. He fluffed up my pillow and stroked my head, gazing at me fondly as I sipped the hot tea.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“No.” 

“Will you be able to dance tomorrow?”

“No.”

We both laughed. He wrapped his arms around me and nosed my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It was worth it.”

He beamed.

I set down the empty cup of tea and picked up my alarm clock. “Alright, what ungodly hour do you wake up, Styles?”

He took it out of my hands. “Don’t set it. Let’s sleep in!”

He dragged me down under the covers and clung to me like he did as a boy. 

I yawned and kissed him contentedly before letting my eyes fall shut.

“My sweet prince,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I just want to say (for people who care about this sort of thing) they both bottom in this fic. Harry will bottom but not yet for obvious reasons.
> 
> Secondly, the last thing I wanted to do with this fic was infantilize Harry because he’s a victim of sexual abuse. I did not want to make him frigid or afraid of sex. I thought that would be reductive. But I did want his sex life to be impacted by what happened to him. I liked the idea of Harry being very vulnerable in some ways and very powerful in others. I thought it would make his character more dynamic and psychologically complex. Also, I wanted his character to absorb certain aspects of Beauchamp's personality. I'm not saying Harry has become like his abusers, but I think early sexual experiences positive and negative shape our tastes and desires. 
> 
> I don’t know how people will feel about them hooking up at this point, but I hope you enjoy this brief honeymoon period (over the next few chapters). 
> 
> In terms of the plot, I've already dropped a hint as to what the twist might be, and you'll get another hint in next week's chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	22. Chapter 22

The next morning I sat up in bed and examined myself in the mirror across the room. My hair looked like a pile of feathers and Harry’s gold ribbon was tied in a bow around my neck. Cheeky. He must have done it last night because he was still sound asleep beside me. 

He opened his eyes and snickered. 

“Do I look like you?” I asked.

“You look like my pet.”

He pulled me back down under the covers and threw a heavy leg over mine. “Go back to sleep,” he ordered. 

I guess he was still in charge. I’d always bristled at Harry’s orders in the studio but in the bedroom his bossiness was infinitely more endearing. 

I couldn’t believe he was here in my bed. I was like a kid on Christmas morning. I wanted to sleep in and stay in the moment but I was too excited. I couldn’t fall back asleep. I tried. I shut my eyes and landed blind kisses on his collarbone. A kittenish yawn escaped his lips and my heart burst with fondness. 

I kissed his still lips hoping he would rouse and kiss me back. 

He stuck his hand in my face. “Louis, do you know how rare it is that I sleep in?”

I kissed his palm. “Sorry, I’ll let you sleep.” 

This was a lie. I slipped a leg between his and squirmed against him, pretending I was just trying to get comfortable. I felt his length on my thigh. It was thick and warm. I kept squirming. His eyes were closed. I thought he’d fallen back asleep when suddenly his eyes flipped open and he seized me by the waist. “Okay, turn around, I want to have you again.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Lie back.”

Harry looked unsure, but he did it anyway.

I pulled the sheets off of him. His cock was already hard, resting heavily against him. I positioned myself between his legs.

Harry’s muscles clenched. “What are you doing?” 

“Being your pet.”

I held his gaze as I leaned down and licked his cock from base to tip. He threw his head back and moaned. “Oh God!”

I licked him again, this time much slower, lingering on his sensitive slit. Harry’s head thrashed around on the pillow. 

On his forehead and chest I spotted the first prickling of sweat. If he was getting this worked up after a few licks, I wondered what he would be like once I took him in my mouth. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I continued licking, varying the pressure and speed. He was getting impatient trying to push himself between my lips. I wouldn’t give in. He had such a pretty cock I could do this all day, and I just might. I switched from licking to kissing now and the change in sensation made him whimper. When I got to his tip and slowly kissed it, he cried out. 

“Now do you want my kisses?”

“Yes,” he sobbed. 

That’s when I wrapped my lips around him and slid down, taking all of him at once. Harry went absolutely ballistic. This was too perfect. He filled my mouth and I sucked and moved my lips, his entire body trembling at my every move. 

The ribbon was constricting my movements, so I lifted my hand to take it off. 

“No!” Harry shouted. “Leave it on! I like it.”

I grinned and went back to licking and purring on his cock. I really was his damn pet! I was so hard and wet, precome coated my inner thighs. It made feel sexy knowing that he liked seeing me in the ribbon. Maybe he wanted a better view.

“Can I ride you?”

“What?” Harry panted, half out of his mind. 

I got the condom and lube from the nightstand. 

“What are you—” I rolled the condom over his cock. “Oh.” 

I wasn’t too generous with the lube. He’d had me the night before. I was confident I could take him a bit easier this time. 

As I climbed over him, he held my hips in anticipation. 

“Lie back,” I said. 

Reluctantly, he did as he was told, licking his lips and taking in the sight of my whole body hovering above him. 

I sank down on his cock. I was wrong. It wasn’t any easier. He placed his hands underneath me to ease me down. I moaned as he opened me up, the soreness from the night before mingling with the new pain of being breached again. 

Carefully, I sank all the way down until I was sitting on him and he was completely inside. We exchanged a meaningful look. I smiled at him and placed my hands on his chest. Slowly and steadily I began to move on his lap. I rolled my hips while he was deep inside me. Harry reached up to touch my throat. He smoothed his fingertips over the ribbon. 

“Louis, oh Louis, I…”

“I know.” I kissed his hands.

I used my thighs for leverage. And once I was ready, I began to really ride him. 

He watched me with his mouth open. I focused on him, his breathing, speeding up and slowing down to keep him right on the edge. 

Harry grabbed my hips and began moving me to his own rhythm, which was more direct, less playful. 

I swatted his hands away. “Stop it, Harry.”

“Stop teasing me.”

“I’m not teasing. I’m trying to make you feel good.”

“It feels too good!”

“That’s the point!”

Harry couldn’t help himself. Every time I moved his hands away, they found their way back to my hips. He was so controlling that even when he was enjoying himself he demanded to be in charge of his own pleasure! I had to lace my fingers through his to stop him. 

“Relax.” 

For my part, I was having a much harder time focusing on his pleasure and was instead getting lost in my own. I shut my eyes and my head fell forward. I put my full weight on him and circled my hips. He was so deep. I didn’t know if it was his size or the fact that it was him, but I wouldn’t last much longer. I was going to come first. How was that possible? I thought to myself in disbelief. 

Sensing my weakness, Harry thrust from beneath me and I came, spilling all over myself and him with a throaty sigh. He seized the moment and broke free from my grip. He clawed my back and kissed me frantically, lifting me up and down on his lap. I was in such a daze from my own orgasm, his lips on mine felt euphoric. He squeezed me tight, so tight that the air left my lungs, and came with a howl deep inside me. I collapsed like a ragdoll in his arms and he held me for a long time, his sweaty cheek on my shoulder. He didn’t want to let go. 

I wasn’t sure how we were ever supposed to get out of bed that morning, or ever again. As soon as we finished making love, one of us or both of us wanted to again. And again. I was sore but I didn’t care. I would have to be dead to stop wanting Harry inside me. The only thing that calmed me down was my curiosity about him. In some ways he seemed like my old friend but in other ways he was a complete stranger. 

As I ran my hand along his thigh, rediscovering ever inch of him, I was seized by panic. What if this was just a one time thing? We hadn’t really discussed how we felt about each other. I didn’t even know if he’d had any serious relationships back in Moscow. I was sure he’d left behind a fleet of gorgeous boyfriends. What if he had some great romance that I didn’t even know about? Harry was the love of my life but it was doubtful that I was the love of his life too. We never even dated in school, and I don’t think I meant as much to him as he did to me back then. 

I didn’t want to seem like I was in love with him after one night. He would think I was I needy and totally pathetic—which of course I was, but I couldn’t let him know that!

Harry was lying with his hands behind his head, his eyes shut. I rested my chin on his chest.

“So, did you have a lot of boyfriends in Moscow?”

He opened one eye suspiciously. “What?”

“Come on, there must have been someone. Who was the Count Vronsky to your Anna Karenina? Was he a dancer? Were you in love with him?”

I was already insanely jealous of this man and I didn’t even know if he existed. 

Harry laughed softly and brushed an eyelash off my cheek. “I think you need to reread that book. And no, there was no boyfriend. I had lovers but nothing serious.”

I weighed this information in my mind. Harry signed with the Bolshoi right out of school. I knew he had no boyfriends at RBS and if he had no boyfriends in Moscow that meant he had never had a serious relationship. Ever.

I thought the worst case scenario was that he had some great love who was way better than me, but what if Harry never had a boyfriend because he could get as many men as he wanted and didn’t want to settle down? 

I fell down on the pillow next to him in despair. I would never be enough for someone like him. How could I be foolish enough to think it, even for a second?

Harry rolled on his side and slipped the sheet off of me, appraising my naked body. “You should get dressed before I fuck you again.”

I was afraid to get dressed. What if he never wanted me again? What if he was just fulfilling some teenage fantasy and now that he’d scratched me off his bucket list he was done with me. This might be my only chance to be with him!

When I didn’t move or respond to his touch, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Am I just a one night stand?” I must have sounded hysterical. So much for playing it cool.

Harry was amused. “It’s noon. So, no.” 

“I’m serious! Is this it? I’d rather know now than have you ice me out at work.” 

He smiled and ruffled my hair. If he was trying to reassure me he was doing a terrible job. 

“This isn’t it,” he said finally, and got up. 

It wasn’t exactly the declaration of love I was hoping for, but it was good enough for me.

He showered first and I showered directly after. When I stepped out of the bathroom I found him sprawled out on my bed still in a towel, deeply engrossed in a novel. 

“Look!” he said, holding up the book—a ghastly thriller by James Patterson. “I found a bunch of books in your laundry bin!”

I looked away, embarrassed. “I wonder how those got there, hmmmm, they must be Jeffrey’s. I don’t read that rubbish.”

He shrugged and turned the page. 

Harry decided to wear his pants from the night before but I leant him a sweatshirt and some dance clothes. 

I picked a pair of grey tights for myself, which made him grin, and the tiniest pair of dance shorts I could find for him.

“Everything else is in the wash,” I said quickly and closed the drawer. 

We decided to walk to the Opera House. Harry wasn’t confident in my ability to walk after our activities the previous night and that morning. He wanted to take a taxi. I insisted I’d be fine. I was uncomfortable but I didn’t want to pass up the chance to spend more time with him and maybe hold his hand. 

He took long strides and faced forward talking about the new choreography. His arms were swinging too widely for me to grab him. I felt like I was in primary school trying to make my first move on a boy. At a stoplight I quickly took his hand and tried to be casual about it. He looked down at our hands in surprise. 

I didn’t think to ask if I could do something as innocent as handholding but maybe I should have. “Is this okay?” 

He blinked. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s just,” he laughed, “I don’t think a guy’s ever held my hand before.”

What! I was outraged. This was truly a crime against humanity. Who were these lovers he had in Moscow? Idiots, clearly. 

Harry walked awkwardly beside me. I could tell that he had never been part of a couple. When I let go of his hand to fix my sweatshirt, he panicked and stuck his hands in his pockets. 

I tapped his wrist to hold his hand again and shyly he obliged. 

When he was in the bedroom and in charge, he was fine, but he wasn’t used to the natural to and fro of a relationship. This was already a challenge for him and we’d barely made it down the street! 

I was the exact opposite: I was already thinking about grocery shopping and cooking together, getting some proper furniture for that fancy flat of his, watching old movies…

“You’re quiet,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Work.” 

We arrived at the Opera House a little after two. There were no rehearsals scheduled since Maurice’s departure. The administration was still regrouping. Eleanor and Gigi were alone in studio B. It looked like they had been rehearsing all morning. I tapped on the window and Gigi whipped her water bottle at the glass. 

Yikes.

Harry and I found an empty studio and got down to business.

I was too sore to be dancing but I had to try. We decided to begin with some of my partnerwork. I stripped down to those dove grey tights Harry liked so much and a fitted white t-shirt. Harry was shirtless in my black dance shorts. They were way too small for him, which was… distracting. 

“Do you want me to be your white swan or your black swan?” he asked. 

“White swan.” I was in a romantic mood. 

We began, at opposite ends of the studio, with the entrée. We acknowledged each other with pageantry and positioned ourselves beside one another to perform the adagio. 

In the adagio, the ballerina performs slow and sustained movements while the danseur supports her. I had to maintain a display of poise and seemingly effortless strength while providing support for the ballerina, or in this case Harry. I lifted him, held him in my arms and steadied him during turns, offering a stable arm for him to use as a virtual barre while he performed balancing feats that would be impossible on his own. 

These feats were proving impossible anyway because I couldn’t hold Harry without kissing him. As he performed Gigi’s slow, languid movements, I held his waist from behind and pressed my length against him. Would he ever let me have him like this? I wondered. Did he not do it at all or was he just not ready to do it with me? 

Harry felt my excitement and brushed his long hair to the side so I could kiss his neck.

“You’re relaxed,” I commented. 

“I feel… Safe.”

It was an odd thing to say, especially from someone who was so powerful. I couldn’t imagine Harry being afraid of anything.

We kissed our way over to the barre. His hands flew into my hair, and mine down the back of his shorts. He was surprised for a second but then his tongue filled my mouth and he kissed me harder. This sent me into a frenzy. I parted him with my palms and began to rub him gently. His breathing became wet and heavy. 

Just as things were heating up between us, one of the young corps dancers opened the door to the studio.

His eyes widened at the sight of Siegfried and Von Rothbart going at it. 

“Oh fuck, sorry,” he stammered. “Liam asked me to--”

“Leave us!” Harry boomed.

The dancer stumbled backward and ran like hell out of the studio. 

My head fell forward and I laughed on Harry’s chest. “You can’t talk to people like that!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not nice! Plus, we don’t need any more enemies.”

I wondered what Liam wanted but I was having such a nice time with Harry I didn’t want to find out. 

Harry wanted to keep rehearsing but I was too sore to do anything more taxing than the adagio. Instead, I got a juice box from the vending machine. I lay down on the studio floor and watched Harry rehearse his solo in my tiny shorts. This was living! 

Watching him dance before it was hard to look past our differences and the hurt that he had caused me but now that I was free from it I could appreciate his dancing for what it was. Having a body like his that could move so gracefully and with such speed and power must have been like driving a Lamborghini. 

This time Liam entered the studio. I sat up. 

“Hello boys.”

Harry stopped dancing and put his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. 

“Can I see you both in my office?”

“That depends,” I said, sucking on my straw, “are we in trouble?”

Liam did not find me cute or funny. 

“Now.”

Harry kept dancing. “I’m busy.”

Liam threw his hands up, incredulous. “Harry!”

“You heard the man,” I snapped. “He’s busy!” 

I followed Liam to his office. Kenneth was waiting for me behind Liam’s desk. He was holding his iPad out in front of him. He was near-sighted and didn’t have his glasses. Liam took a seat opposite him and I did the same. I wasn’t sure what to expect. A lecture? A warning? 

He sighed when he saw that it was just the two of us. “Where’s Harry?”

“He wouldn’t come out of the studio,” Liam said. 

Kenneth frowned. “That is not acceptable. Louis go back there and get him. I don’t care if you have to drag him out kicking and screaming.”

I crossed my arms. “No. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s working.”

Kenneth and Liam exchanged looks. “Meet Harry’s new attack dog,” Liam said. 

I waggled my eyebrows. “Woof.”

Reeling backward in his chair, Kenneth rubbed his temples. “Louis, this company is in a lot of serious trouble right now because of Harry’s behavior. You were his most vocal critic—”

“I changed my mind. He’s a beautiful genius and my best friend.”

Liam was so done. He picked a folder up off his desk and handed me a copy of the new rehearsal schedule. 

“Have Gigi and Eleanor agreed to this?”

Liam nodded, carefully gauging my reaction.

“Cool. I guess Joni can take it from here then.” I smiled to myself. Joni, the assistant choreographer, was a total pushover and terrified of Harry. It would be easy to convince her to go along with Harry’s vision.

I stood up and threw my bag over my shoulder. I was dying to tell Harry the good news. 

“Not so fast,” said Kenneth. “Joni isn’t taking over for Maurice.”

“We’re bringing in another guest choreographer,” Liam said. 

I groaned. So much for working with Joni. I guess it would have to be a hostile takeover after all.

Normally I would throw a fit if things didn’t go my way with the administration, and I think they were waiting for said fit, but I felt badly for Liam and the difficult position he was in, so I tried to keep things civil. 

“Is this really necessary when we’re so close to dress rehearsal? We know the choreography. We’re all quite competent.”

Kenneth stood up and collected his things. Liam handed him his tweed jacket. “The choreographer isn’t being brought in to teach you the choreography, he’s being brought in to control this situation, to control one dancer in particular.”

I didn’t appreciate his tone. Harry wasn’t some sort of animal. 

“Who is he?”

“I’ll let you know when the paperwork is signed… I will say that he’s nothing like Maurice.”

“When does he start?” I asked, following Kenneth out the door, tapping his shoulder like an anxious child. 

“Tomorrow. There’s a mandatory meeting for the whole company at nine sharp.” He glanced down the hall at the studio door. “Tell your beautiful genius to be on time. Our guest doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

And with that, Kenneth climbed the narrow stairwell, his footsteps echoing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably guess where I’m going with this…
> 
> There are 2 more warm and fuzzy chapters left. I’m posting them both next week.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm...

I jogged down the winding corridor to find Harry. I passed the bulletin board and studio A where I noticed a bunch of corps dancers flexing their beaten ankles and filling up their water bottles. I stopped to say hi. I had always been friendly with them in the past. I went to school with some and others had been coming to my annual holiday party for years. 

They turned their backs on me. 

When I returned to studio B to find Harry, Zayn was standing there in his place, practicing his foucettes. His lithe frame allowed him to pick up and drop his foot with speed as he did turn after turn after turn. 

“Where’s Harry?”

Zayn’s flipped his inky mane to one side. He turned off the stereo and picked up a towel hanging on the barre. “I should have known you weren’t here to see me.”

Harry’s stuff was gone and all that lay in the corner was Zayn’s gym bag. 

The air was thick with sweat, Harry’s and Zayn’s. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell it to someone who cares. Maybe Gigi or Maurice or Liam or everyone else Harry screwed over with your help.”

I swallowed. I wasn’t ready to deal with the aftermath of the intervention and what it meant to the company. Selfishly, I didn’t _want_ to deal with it. All I wanted was Harry. I was living in a bubble impervious to the world around me. 

“I can’t believe you let him manipulate you,” Zayn said, dragging his towel along the back of his neck to absorb beads of sweat. 

“I know this sounds cliché but he’s changed.”

“No, he hasn’t. You have.”

“You’re the one who told me to get over the past and be friends with him!”

“I told you to be cordial. You’re his colleague not his slave!”

That’s not what it felt like. It felt wonderful to be needed by Harry, to be useful to him. He was my heart. His wants were my wants. 

“Harry is who he is,” said Zayn, walking toward me, his muscles tense, “but you were our friend. You were supposed to be there for us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, unable to meet his gaze. I glanced at myself in the mirror. Maybe Zayn was right. I had changed. It was impossible that I was the same person I was after my night with Harry.

I headed for the door. Zayn stopped me. “He’s in his dressing room.”

“Thanks.” I pressed my lips into a conciliatory smile. 

He rolled up his joggers and turned on the stereo again. The syrupy sound of the cello spilled from the studio’s speakers and filled the room. I almost couldn’t hear Zayn when he spoke again. “Don’t come crawling back to us when he hurts you. He will hurt you, Louis.”

I left. 

Harry’s dressing room was right next to mine. I went into mine first and set down my bag next to the door. The place was a mess—makeup spread out and caked on the vanity, old slippers and ripped tights, rolls of medical tape, cotton and gauze. 

I had to be careful. This was my life. Zayn, Gigi, Eleanor, Liam and Niall had all been there for me. Harry could leave the company tomorrow. Who was I without my friends, the people who I loved, who loved me? How much was I willing to risk on the chance that Harry might love me one day? The answer was startlingly simple: I would risk everything. 

After changing back into my street clothes I went next door to Harry’s dressing room. The lights were out and it was silent. I assumed he’d already left when I saw something shift in the darkness.

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Harry?”

I turned on the lights. He was huddled in the corner with an icepack on his knee and his head down, taking slow, deep breaths. 

“Go. Please.”

“No.” I kneeled beside him and took his hand. “What can I do?”

He lifted his head finally. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, his curls limp and sweaty, plastered to his cheeks. “I need to go home. I need my pills.”

Quickly, I collected his things. He didn’t have the strength to get dressed, so I wrapped my sweatshirt around his shoulders. He leaned on me as he stood up. He didn’t make any sounds, but I could tell from the vein on his forehead that he was in agony. He placed all of his weight on me as we stepped outside onto the Royal Opera House steps. This was harder for him than the pain. Being seen like this. Being weak.

I flagged down a taxi. His head lolled on the window the whole way home, the grey London sky indistinguishable from his pallid complexion. As I tried to help him out of the taxi when we got to his place, the driver kept asking if he should call an ambulance.

“I’m fine!” Harry yelled. 

The driver sped off. 

We used the lift to get up to his flat. Once inside, I looked around desperately for a place to set him down. There was no furniture, just freshly waxed hardwood floors and the huge glass window that exposed this poor boy that wanted nothing more than to hide. 

He let go of me and hobbled to the kitchen. He knocked over the blender trying to get to the cupboard that housed his medication. I poured him a glass of water. He shook two pills onto his palm and threw them back with the water. He pressed the cool glass to his forehead and leaned on the counter, breathing heavily. 

“Where’s your bed?” I asked, putting his arm around my shoulder. 

“Upstairs,” he said, on the verge of tears. Just the idea of climbing those steps was excruciating to him. 

With his arm around my shoulder, I bent down and picked him up. 

“You can’t. I’m too heavy.”

“I’ve got you.”

He was heavy and I had to steady myself on each step, but there was no way I was going to let him try to climb these steps on his own. 

His bedroom was on the top landing of the flat. It was open concept but so high up you couldn’t see what it looked like from the floor below. Harry’s bed was at the very back of this alcove, like a hidden treasure. The decadence that I had been expecting when I first entered the flat could be found here in this tiny space that he showed no one. 

His bedding was tiffany blue, satin jacquard silk, with a button tufted velvet headboard in the Victorian style. He had dozens of pillows in all shapes and sizes arranged artfully at the head of the bed. Next to his bed was a small mahogany nightstand trimmed with carved rosettes and piled high with books. He had a few small contemporary paintings and some larger ones leaning against the wall that he hadn’t gotten around to hanging yet. Bookshelves were built into the walls. It was like sleeping inside a library, I imagined. There was a walk-in closet that was almost as big as the bedroom with all of his beautiful clothes, a collection as colorful and varied as his books and art.

I had to move some of the pillows to turn down the bed. I undressed him, removing the sweater from his shoulders and taking off his shoes, until he was in just his small black shorts. The drugs were beginning to do their work. His brow was no longer furrowed and his arms and legs unclenched and relaxed in my grip. I took off my own shoes and got in bed next to him. 

I didn’t want to ask the question I knew we were both thinking but I had to: “How can you dance like this?”

“I’m okay.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

He picked up my hand and held it, the way I held his earlier. “I’m okay. I have good days and bad days. This was a bad day.”

“I don’t want you to have any bad days.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” he said squeezing my hand. 

My spirits lifted and for a split second I stopped worrying. But I couldn’t stop worrying, not really. I was torn between badgering him with questions and letting it drop. His weary expression told me to change the subject, at least for now. 

“I like your bedroom,” I said. “It’s fancy, like you.”

He smiled, his green eyes cheerful. “My bedroom in Moscow was even fancier!” 

“I bet! Why don’t you decorate downstairs? All of your stuff is crammed up here.”

His eyes moved over his books and the painting of a young boy asleep on his mother’s lap. “I don’t like people looking at my things.”

“Except me?” I asked hopefully. 

“Except you.” 

As the drugs did their work, a calm came over Harry. Unexpectedly, he moved closer and kissed my cheek. His hot breath felt like the sun against my face. He wanted to be tender, which surprised me. He was normally much more direct in his affections. 

“Harry, when you’re feeling better I want to take you out.”

“Oh?” 

“To dinner maybe, or to my family’s summer house over the weekend. Somewhere nice.”

“This is nice.” He nuzzled my ear.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I said.

“Always.”

This was going to be a little embarrassing to admit. “I planned a date for us… when we were at school.”

Harry tilted his head. “Really?”

I was fidgeting and placed my hands under the covers. “I wanted to take you to your first ballet, so I saved up and bought us tickets to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was just a small regional company out in Birmingham but I thought we could make a night of it.” 

“Why didn’t you take me?”

“The day after I got the tickets Beauchamp invited you to Paris, to opening night of Swan Lake at the Paris Opera House. I couldn’t compete with that. I wanted your first ballet to be special. It was better that it was with him,” I conceded. 

“I wish it was with you,” he said quietly. 

I drew him near and kissed his forehead. In my mind I went over all the things I should have said and done when we were in school. If I could do it all again, I would have told him how I felt about him the first night he slept in my bunk. I would have made him mine and taken him to his first ballet. I would have forgiven him when he hurt me because deep down I knew that he was good. I couldn’t explain how I knew this to Zayn or Liam but I was sure of it.

Harry slipped a hand under my shirt. His touches were more pointed now. His breathing quickened. He wanted to be intimate, and I knew if he asked I would comply because I had no fucking idea how to say no to him. 

I didn’t give into his advances. The drugs made him overestimate his own strength. He needed his rest. Seeing him in that kind of pain earlier had shocked me. 

He wouldn’t stop though. He hooked his leg around me so that his injured knee rested on my thigh. 

“Come on, take off your clothes,” he said sweetly.

I patted his shoulder.

“Don’t you want to?”

I was in a permanent state of wanting to when I was with him. 

“You were in so much pain earlier…” I didn’t want to condescend but I was really worried. 

“Touch me,” he said.

“What?”

“Do things to me. I won’t move my knee. I promise.”

I grinned smugly to myself. Well, well, well. Faced with the prospect of getting no sex, Harry was willing to give me control for once. This was new. 

Then I thought, would I ever get used to this? Being alone in a bed with Harry? Being touched by him? Having him ask me to touch him? No. Impossible. 

I shifted out of my clothes, down to my boxerbriefs. Harry’s eyes moved over my naked chest and down to my ass. Leaning on my side I tilted his chin toward me and kissed his mouth. 

I placed a hand between his legs and his cheeks turned bright pink. 

Palming him, he quickly got hard. This would be nice, I thought. I would just lazily stroke him to climax and feel him come in my hand. 

Harry had other plans. “Do what you did to me in the studio,” he blurted out.

“Dance?”

“No, the other thing.”

He rolled onto his stomach. I tried to search his face for what he wanted but he buried it in the pillow. 

“Just your hands,” he said abruptly.

“Okay.”

I placed a hand on the small of his back and gently pet him. I thought this was what he meant but then he reached down and slipped out of his shorts, kicking them off his ankles. 

“Oh.”

Just my hands. This was going to be a true test of restraint I thought, my eyes pouring over his lovely exposed body. 

I squeezed his flesh and he jumped a little. I lightened my touch. His skin rippled with goose bumps as I dragged my fingers along the back of his thigh. 

He was too tense to open his legs for me so I slipped my fingers between them, stroking around the most private parts of him.

I was starting to feel faint, my own cock throbbing next to him. I ignored it, or rather I took that energy and put it into my hands.

I tried to look for some sign that he was enjoying this. He was quiet and still as a statue. With my other hand I brushed the hair away from his neck and kissed him. 

“I care for you, Harry.”

He perked up.

“Let me make you feel good.”

Harry took a deep breath and slowly moved his legs apart.

Just this tiny gesture made my heart stop. The sight of him spread open. I couldn’t do this. I wanted him too badly.

My fingertips slipped between his cheeks until I found his rim. Harry gasped. I felt him. I explored the smooth skin. It felt even better than it looked. Supple and soft. 

“Oh, Harry.” I applied more pressure. “You feel so good here.”

He arched his back and cried at my touch. 

This was insane. My fingers weren’t even inside him. 

He lifted his head. “Kiss me.” 

I crushed my lips against his and circled his rim with my fingertips. It was the first time I saw the spark of lust in his eyes when I was touching him this way. 

“I want to be inside you,” I said.

Maddeningly, he didn’t say anything back. 

Instead, he bent his knee slightly, exposing himself even more. 

He was so passive and defenseless in that moment I knew I could take him if I wanted to. I knew he would whimper and cry and come apart around me. I knew that it would feel incredible. 

I got behind him and held his hips. 

I imagined what it would be like to fuck him. To press into him barely touched. To feel his tightness envelop me. 

This is how it was meant to be. 

What were we waiting for? 

“I want to be inside you,” I said again. 

Harry didn’t say anything. 

My head fell forward onto his back. “Please let me have you.” 

Why wouldn’t he speak? Why wouldn’t he let me in?

I put my mouth on his rim, kissing and licking him feverishly. 

“Louis…” Harry moaned. 

I was begging now. “Please. I adore you.” 

“This feels so…”

Now he couldn’t be open enough. He spread himself apart with his hands and pushed back against my mouth. 

I pressed my lips to him, my breath warming his supple wet flesh. “Please. I’m going to die if I don’t come inside you.” 

Harry was totally gone, writhing against my lips. 

I lifted my mouth off him to catch my breath. 

He let out a strangled cry. “Come back!”

“Baby.” I buried my face in his flesh and reached beneath him to take his length in my hand. 

“Yes,” he breathed.

I gave a long, slow, wet kiss on his tender rim and he came in ribbons all over my hand and wrist. 

Blood was pounding in my ears. I was so hard I was aching. 

Harry was lying beneath me, tired and weak. I rolled away from him and he went limp, his head on the pillow, his dark curls mussed with sweat. I couldn’t ask him to do anything for me. He was exhausted. 

I was about to take care of myself when Harry stirred beside me. His legs were still spread apart, his hole pink and glistening. Oh God, his body was perfectly prepped and begging to be fucked. I couldn’t lie next to him when he was like this. I didn’t trust myself. 

I kissed the back of his sweaty head. Then I made my way awkwardly to the bathroom. 

Harry’s bathroom was done in blue glass tile and chrome fixtures that twinkled brightly under the fluorescent light. It felt like being inside a jewelry box. 

I stepped into the shower and blasted the cold water. With my palms pressed against the glass wall, I waited for my excitement to subside. 

I didn’t totally understand what just happened. Why wouldn’t he give himself to me? Was I doing something wrong? Was Jeffrey right, were my feelings for Harry stronger than his for me? I thought we were on the same page, but in bed it felt like we were on different planets. 

Harry didn’t have many soaps and creams but the ones he did have looked expensive. I picked up the shampoo, a matt rectangular bottle embossed with shiny green lettering. It smelled like a garden, like him.

A few seconds later Harry knocked on the glass shower door. I opened it. He was still naked. 

“You left me.”

“I needed some time to myself.”

“I’m lonely.”

I’d finally gotten my body under control and here he was stirring things up again! 

He stepped into the shower and reached out to me. The water hit him and he squealed. “Why is this so cold?”

He turned up the hot water and waited until it got nice and steamy before ducking under the stream. He wasted no time winding his arms around my waist and kissing me. First my lips, then my cheek, then down my neck. His kisses were messy and wet, and his soft lips reminded me of another wonderfully soft part of him… It didn’t take much to get me excited. He stared down at my aroused body. I blushed. 

Then he turned around. “Wash me.”

One look at Harry’s pert bum and my chest tightened. He was trying to kill me, I was sure of it. I picked up the soap and a blue luffa that hung on the shower wall.

“With your hands,” he instructed.

No man was strong enough for this. 

I dropped the luffa and lathered up my hands. I began washing him, my fingers slipping over the soapy curves of his back. Without thinking, I got too close and my cock grazed his ass. 

“I really should shower alone,” I said.

“Why? You used to wash me in the shower at school.” 

“I was coming onto you!”

“Are you coming onto me now?”

“Yes.” I held his hips, resting my cock on his ass. 

Harry bit his lip and parted his legs. 

I didn’t know what this meant but I rubbed up against him desperately. I couldn’t help myself. 

“Can you come from this?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” 

He bent over slightly, bracing himself on the shower wall. 

He wanted to give me what I wanted. He wanted to give me pleasure. This was the best he could do. I was grateful to him.

I soaped him up and slid my cock between his cheeks but not inside him. It wasn’t a lot of friction but I was so turned on it didn’t matter. 

I dug my fingers into his hips and glided against him. I watched the head of my cock move back and forth against his hole. I wanted to be inside him so badly. This was such sweet agony. 

I hooked an arm around him and smoothed a hand over his chest and stomach, peppering his back with kisses.

“Is this good?” Harry asked, concerned it wasn’t enough for me.

“So good. I wish you could see what I’m doing to you. I wish you could see how beautiful you are like this. You were made me for me Harry, I swear to God. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire fucking life.” 

I wanted to throw him up against the shower wall and roughly come to climax, but I knew his knee was still bothering him. I had to take it slow, which was both heaven and hell. 

My grunts became louder and louder, echoing around the bathroom. I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist grinding against him as hard as I could without moving his knee. 

Harry peeked over his shoulder coyly, his pink mouth open, water dripping from his dark lashes. 

I came all over him. 

My forehead fell between his shoulder blades. 

He turned around and took my face in his hands. My eyes were out of focus but I stared at him. This was so good but still so far away from how I wanted him, I couldn’t hide my lingering desire. 

“Give me time,” he said, reading my thoughts. “Please.”

I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his neck. “I would wait forever for you, you know I would.”

“Louis,” he cooed, hugging me back just as tightly. 

I looked behind him. “Okay, now I really do need to wash you.”

He laughed. “You made a mess of me!”

I took the soap and began to lather up and slowly wash him with my hands. All dancers had fit, toned bodies but Harry’s body had a softness to it that was boyish and pretty. His ass was unbelievable. Tiny but plump and very cute and…

Harry cleared his throat. “I think I’m clean now.”

“Oh, right.” I moved him under the water.

We shampooed our hair and the whole shower smelled like a sexy garden. Like Harry. He took longer because he had to leave conditioner in for several minutes to make his curls shine and bounce. I didn’t argue. I loved his curls and whatever he was doing was working. 

It was funny thinking of how nervous I was showering with Harry at school. How we both resorted to Olympic feats of contortion to hide our erections from each other. How kissing his back felt like the most scandalous thing in the world. 

Now we were here, naked, facing each other, touching each other freely. It was a dream come true. I felt like I was fifteen and living out my sauciest fantasies. I’m making out with Harry in the shower! This is happening! Thank you God!

I could say and do all of the things I didn’t have the guts to as a teen, like I was getting a second chance to do it all again and do it right this time. 

I slung my arms loosely around him. “You make me so happy.”

“I do?” Harry said, not quite able to believe it.

“These past two days have been the best days of my life and I want you to know it. I don’t care how clingy that sounds. It’s how I feel.”

Harry clasped the back of my neck. “I want you to cling to me.”

We kissed and kissed and kissed, water running over our faces. If we didn’t get out of there soon we’d either shrivel up or drown. 

We stepped out of the shower and couldn’t see a thing. We’d turned the place into a steam room. Through the haze, Harry staggered over to a small inset shelf and handed me a fluffy white towel. Before I could put it on around my waist, he snapped me with his own towel. 

“Ow!” 

He smoothed a hand over my pink ass. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about this.”

“It hasn’t forgotten you. I’m still recovering from last night…and this morning.”

Harry tightened his grip. “Later then.”

My stomach leapt. 

With towels tightened around our waists, we headed into his walk-in closet. He opened his dresser and pulled out two clean pairs of boxer briefs. One was black and the other navy, both silk. 

“Hmmm, these aren’t really me.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Picky.”

I dug around myself and found a pair of white cotton ones. “These’ll do.”

There was no point getting dressed. We traipsed down Harry’s long floating staircase in just our underwear.

It was jarring being in front of those giant windows. “Can anyone see us?”

“Dunno. The House of Commons, I suppose, if they have binoculars.”

“Politicians are dirty bastards. I bet they do.” I stretched into a star and waved at the parliament building. “Hello, old boys! Hey, we should put on a show for them later.” 

Harry joined me by the window and slid a hand down the front of my underwear. 

“Curtain call’s at eight.”

“No flash photography.”

It was almost evening and I was ravenous. I opened Harry’s steel, double-door fridge but all he had in there were energy drinks. 

“Where’s the food?” 

He searched the cupboards and pulled out a stack of flyers. “Sorry, I usually order in. Sushi?”

I flipped through the options and nothing called out to me.

“What about pizza?”

“For old times sake!”

“And new times,” I added. 

“Yes.”

The food came quickly. We answered the door in our underwear, giving the young delivery guy an eyeful. If he wasn’t gay before, he was certainly considering it now.

Harry didn’t have any plates so we ate straight out of the box, cross-legged on the floor. It really was like we were back in school! 

We had the whole night ahead of us. I didn’t know what to do, but we fell into a familiar rhythm: Me teasing Harry and talking a mile a minute, while Harry laughed at my jokes and tried to outfox me. Neither of us wanted to leave his flat so we decided to stay in and watch a movie. 

I was always satisfied with the latest superhero flick on offer. To be honest, I didn’t really know what Harry liked. In school he was very adaptable. His tastes changed depending on whom he was with. When he was with me he watched superhero movies and talked football. When he was with Zayn they discussed novels, photography and art. He wanted to make everyone around him happy. I wanted to know what made him happy.

“What do you like?” I asked.

“Documentaries mostly.”

I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw a documentary. 

“Is there any one in particular you’re keen on?”

He chewed thoughtfully on a crust of pizza. “There’s one about bees I’ve been meaning to see.”

“Bees? Like the bug?”

“Yes. They’re going extinct. It’s an environmental crisis, Louis! It’s really important to support films that raise awareness.”

It wouldn’t have been my first choice but Harry seemed pretty worked up about this bee crisis so I figured I’d give it a shot. 

As we were cleaning up I noticed Harry’s phone flashing on the kitchen island. It was Kenneth. Harry moved to turn it off, but I playfully snatched it from him and answered. 

“Harry’s phone, Louis speaking.” I hopped up on the counter, swinging my legs.

_“I’ve been calling you both all afternoon. The new choreographer came a day early and has requested an impromptu meeting. I need you in the studio right this second.”_

“Can’t, we’re not wearing pants.” 

Harry flashed me a dimpled smile.

 _“Put your pants on and get down here!”_ Kenneth barked. _“It’s Alex—”_

“—Love to but we have plans. We’re saving the bees and performing a striptease for the House of Commons.”

Harry folded over in a fit of giggles. 

_“Louis!”_

“Gotta go, Ken.”

Harry stood between my knees and pinched my thigh. “Skipping rehearsal. You’re naughty.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

I explained that we were getting a new guest choreographer. Harry seemed annoyed but otherwise unfazed. Like most fascist dictators, he was always prepared for a coup. 

My little Mussolini! 

We kissed and Harry led me back up to his bedroom. That was the one good thing about Harry’s lack of décor: he had no other furniture, so we had to spend the whole night in bed. 

He got his laptop and we stretched out over the tousled sheets. Harry handed it to me to find the movie, while he fetched us some drinks. 

Even his computer was bare. Besides his research, there were no icons on his desktop and his bookmarks were empty. I was curious about what type of porn he might be into but the history was wiped clean. I guess I wasn’t going to discover any deep dark secrets by snooping. 

He came back and placed two glasses on the nightstand: a glass of wine for me and water for him. He couldn’t drink while he was on painkillers. 

I placed the laptop on a pillow on my lap and he nestled down beside me. 

“Try not to fall asleep,” he said.

“Oi! You’re the one who always falls asleep during movies.” It was one of the reasons it took me six months to kiss him when we were in school. Every time we watched a movie or cuddled he would doze off. It was like living with a cat. When he wasn’t sleeping in every morning, he was napping. 

“It’s funny that you have insomnia. You were such a sleepy kid.”

“I sleep when I’m with you.”

“Are you calling me boring?” I teased.

Harry glanced anxiously at the pills on his nightstand. “I can’t take my sleeping pills tonight since I took the painkillers earlier.”

I laced my fingers through his. “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

“Thank you.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I hate being awake at night.”

“Afraid of the dark?”

“I love the dark. I’m afraid… of my own thoughts.”

“I wish I could see inside that beautiful head of yours.” I kissed his forehead. 

Harry slipped into one of his moody silences. 

I turned on the movie and sipped my wine. 

Shit, Harry was right. The bees were in trouble. 

How had I not known that bees were instrumental in food production? It seemed like something I should have known. They called the crisis, “colony collapse disorder.” It occurs when the majority of worker bees in a colony disappear and leave behind a few nurse bees to care for the remaining young bees and the queen. There was a sort of tragic Elizabethan beauty to it—all these young bees and their queen left to fend for themselves. 

I nudged Harry to hear what he thought and his head lolled on my chest. He was sound asleep! 

I had to be a nurse bee and care for this sleepy young bee. I tried to move him onto the pillow but he sighed grumpily. I didn’t want to wake him in case he couldn’t fall back asleep. Instead, I drew the blanket up over his shoulder and put an extra pillow behind my head. I wasn’t totally comfortable but I wouldn’t risk disturbing him. 

I watched the rest of the documentary so I could impress Harry the next day. When the film finished, I carefully closed the laptop and placed it on the nightstand without moving Harry. I watched his curly head rise and fall on my chest. I wasn’t sure I could sleep like this but it didn’t matter. It was more important that Harry slept. 

I wanted him to sleep soundly every night. 

I wanted him to live without pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter. I admit it's a little indulgent but it touches on a couple subplots that become important later. 
> 
> I'll be updating again on Friday :)


	24. Chapter 24

When I opened my eyes it was still dark out. Harry was up and fully dressed.

“Rise and shine.”

My whole body ached from sleeping in a sitting position. “What time is it?” I groaned.

Harry pointed to the clock on his nightstand. “It’s four. Come on. It’s time to go to work.”

I was NOT a morning person. And anyway, four A.M. was not morning in my book. 

I crawled under the covers. “You’re insane.”

He yanked the blanket off of me. “Get up. We’re late.”

“According to who? Owls? Bats? It’s the middle of the night!”

“You have five minutes. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Okay, sure.” As soon as he stepped out of the room I fell back asleep. 

The next thing I remembered was a hard smack on my bum. “Ow! Bloody hell!”

“Up!”

I was roadkill. I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to. I made a little fortress around myself with Harry’s fancy pillows.

He switched up his tactics. I felt his lips on the back of my neck. “Oooooh.”

His feather-light kisses trailed down my spine and dipped at the small of my back. He flipped me over and mouthed my length through my cotton boxerbriefs. 

“What do I have to do to get you up?”

I was wide-awake now. 

My eyes open, I took in the sight of him. His hair was neatly tied back and he was wearing a floral button down and black skinnies that accentuated his curvy thighs. God, how did he manage to look so good at this hour? I looked like an angry possum. 

Presumptuously, I slipped out of my boxers. 

Harry raised his eyebrows. 

I was a little embarrassed in case I misread the situation, but if I had I knew Harry wouldn’t be mean about it.

I hadn’t misread the situation.

He picked me up in his hand, his slender fingers wrapped around my length. Very slowly his hand moved over my shaft. His touch was exploratory, like he was trying to understand what every inch felt like, understand it’s contours and ridges, understand me.

I sighed contentedly, widening my thighs. 

“You like my hands?” he said. 

“I like your mouth more.”

Harry’s cheeks dimpled. 

It occurred to me that we hadn’t done this yet. I had gone down on him but he had never gone down on me. I had never been inside him at all. 

Normally I wouldn’t be so demanding, but he was making me get out of bed at four-in-the-fucking-morning! 

I brushed a thumb across his bottom lip. “Take me in your mouth.”

Harry’s breathing hardened. “I want that.”

He stared down at me, his brows knit. 

“You have done this before, right?” I was joking but Harry was acting so strangely I had to wonder.

“I’ve done it.” 

Harry kneeled before me on the bed as though in prayer. He closed his eyes. I felt his breath on my inner thigh and I thought I might come then and there. 

I reached behind his head and took out the elastic in his hair, unleashing his dark curls. 

“Why’d you do that?” He said jumpily. 

“I just like you with your hair down.” I really didn’t understand why he was so anxious. “Harry we don’t have to…”

“I want to. Stay still.” 

I huffed. This wasn’t going to work if Harry had to have complete control all the time and I had no say and—

He kissed my slit. 

“Harry!” I gasped. 

He licked his lips. “I want to do this,” he repeated like a mantra. Then he shut his eyes and kissed my slit again, this time letting his plump lips linger. 

I bit down on the pillow.

His hand was around me again and he was stroking me. 

“Your mouth, your mouth, I want your mouth,” I begged. 

Harry’s face flushed red. I could see the outline of his own erection tight in his pants.

I felt his tongue on me, hot and wet. 

“I like this.” He was talking to himself. “This is good.”

He kept licking me. I was going to come but this wasn’t what I wanted. 

“Take me in your mouth. I’m going to come soon. I want to come in your mouth.” 

Slowly Harry opened his red mouth. I had to force myself not to thrust between his lips.

He batted his lashes and delicately slipped his lips over my tip and down my shaft. 

I fisted his curls. “Oh, God Harry, your mouth, your gorgeous mouth.” 

This was heaven. It was like being dipped in liquid satin. His mouth was so wet, so unbelievably soft. He didn’t even take me all the way before I came. I held the back of his head and spilled long and hard down his throat, his pillowy lips cushioning my rough jolts of pleasure.

He let me fall from his lips. His wide eyes met mine like he was shocked by what just happened. 

I pulled him down against my chest and kissed his head. “That was incredible.” I felt like he was mine now, like he’d finally given me a piece of himself. I growled with approval and kissed him again.

He was quiet and motionless. 

“Harry,” I said gently. “I care about you. You know that, right?”

He lifted his head. He was emotional and wiped his eyes. “I know.” 

I didn’t understand why this made him so emotional but it intrigued me. It made what we did feel meaningful. It made him feel more mine somehow.

“Hold me,” he said. I held him against my chest and he buried his face in the crook of my neck. His cheeks were wet with tears. 

I held him fully dressed against me. I was naked.

“I should put some clothes on.” 

“No. Let’s just stay like this for a while.”

I smiled. I loved this. I loved him being vulnerable. I loved that he needed me. However, as I rubbed his back, I knew we needed to talk. I didn’t mind that Harry was a little hesitant about certain sexual acts but I think I deserved to know what those things were and why. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked carefully. 

“Talk about what?” he answered, burying his head deeper against my neck. 

“Harry, we’ve had sex a dozen times and this is the first time you’ve… and we still haven’t…”

He curled his fingers around my wrist pleadingly. “I told you, I just need a little time.”

This was of course a reasonable request but it wasn’t one that I’d encountered before, and it wasn’t something I thought Harry in particular would require. When we were in school he was very trusting. Even though we had only kissed the one time, he was docile as a lamb and gave himself to me without question. Every relationship has a natural rhythm and that was ours. Now he kept that trusting boy locked inside him. Simply having me in his mouth felt like surmounting a huge wall.

“Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you!” 

“Do you not like it?”

“I liked having you in my mouth,” he said, blushing furiously.

“What about…”

He rolled onto his back beside me. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know? Have you done it?”

“Yes!” he said defensively. “Can we please not talk about this anymore.” 

I leaned on my elbow and draped my arm over him. “I’m not trying to put you on the spot but if we’re going to be lovers I need to know these things so I don’t cross some invisible boundary.” 

Harry looked up at the ceiling and I could sense the fury burning inside him. “I don’t like it, okay! Is that what you want to hear? I’ve never liked it and I’m not sure I ever will! I’m not going to be the perfect lover for you. I’m not Jeffrey. I can’t be all the things you want, all the things you deserve. Sorry I’m such a disappointment.” 

I was stunned. “You’re not a disappointment.” 

“Are you saying that it doesn’t bother you?” I heard the cruelty slipping into his voice, pushing me away. “That if I never let you fuck me, you’d still want to be with me?” 

I felt so selfish, but I had to be honest. “It does bother me, Harry. I want to have you. All of you. But…”

“But?”

“You’re my best friend! I could have a hundred Jeffrey’s that let me do whatever I want but they still wouldn’t be you.” 

Harry ground he teeth. “I’ll do it if that’s what you want.”

“I want you to want it,” I whispered, reading his face hopefully. 

His expression was impassive and his body cold.

He didn’t want it, it was clear to me now, and it broke my fucking heart. It was not the act itself I cared about but everything the act represented. He wouldn’t let me give him the most intimate of pleasures. He wouldn’t make himself completely vulnerable to me. Unfortunately, this didn’t make me want him any less. I wanted him more than ever. 

Harry threw an arm over his head, sad and lethargic. I climbed on top of him and started kissing him. I took out all my frustration on his lips. I roughly kissed his mouth until he couldn’t breathe, until he was desperately sipping the air from my lungs. I started to take off his clothes. He let me. I unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. Then I undid his pants and yanked them off of him. I smoothed a hand over his silk boxerbriefs and yanked those off too. He didn’t seem nervous, more resigned. He was like this sometimes: dead inside. 

“There are condoms in the nightstand,” he said. 

“I’m not going to fuck you!” I said angrily. “Is that the kind of person you think I am?” 

“I don’t know, Louis! You tell me? This is obviously a big deal to you!” 

“Yes, it is a big deal! I’m in love with you!”

Harry didn’t respond. 

I curled my naked body around his and held him tight. I wanted to feel his skin against my skin. If I couldn’t have him I wanted to get as close to him as possible. 

Harry placed a hand on top of mine. “I’m sorry I can’t be who you want.”

“Stop it. You’re exactly who I want.” 

We stayed like this for hours. I watched the sun come up out the window and felt it warm our entwined limbs. 

Even though we’d argued, and we were both frustrated, this mess somehow brought us closer. Making love is intimate but so is fighting. Harry had revealed another part of himself, and like all parts of him, it was precious to me. 

We got dressed and had coffee. Harry took his painkillers, which was an unspoken agreement that we would be sleeping together again that night. 

Harry would have walked or taken the tube to work, but because of his knee I stood on the curb and flagged us a taxi. 

He rested his head on my shoulder the whole way to the opera house. 

I didn’t want to go to work. I wanted to stay in bed and kiss and talk. I wished I could read his thoughts. Did he love me too? He didn’t say it when I said it. Of course, I said it way too soon. I didn’t blame him for being reticent. Still, I wondered if he loved me. I hoped he did.

The entire company had gathered in studio A to meet the new choreographer. Harry and I entered the studio together. A hush fell over the room as we walked in. Harry was used to being feared and hated by his colleagues. I wasn’t. 

Undeniably, we made a powerful pair. While we weren’t liked, we were respected. Corps dancers quickly scattered to let us have a spot near the front of the room. I was going to sit beside Harry when he pulled me between his knees. I leaned back against his chest and he began to rub my shoulders, tenderly kneading the knots with his fingertips. Harry didn’t care for PDA but he was uncharacteristically affectionate when we were around other members of the company. He was proud that I was his. I don’t think anyone had ever stuck up for him the way I had. It meant something to him. For the first time he had someone who was unreservedly on his side.

Everyone knew we were together, though it was hard to know what they thought of it exactly. It couldn’t have been anything good. I had gone from being Harry’s greatest adversary at the company, to being his lover and greatest champion practically overnight. They probably thought it was a sign of the apocalypse. 

Gigi, Zayn and Eleanor stood in a row on the opposite side of room. I gave them a half smile. They shook their heads. 

Harry looked down at me and cradled my head. “Don’t worry. They’ll forgive you,” he said. 

I frowned. “I’m not so sure.”

“Well, I am. You’re irresistible.” He kissed me as the entire room watched with a mix of shock and horror. 

Just then, Kenneth walked in followed by Liam in nearly identical grey suits. Liam who was Kenneth’s doppelganger in every way seemed out of step with him today. There was obvious tension between them. They didn’t engage in their usual congenial banter. Liam handed Kenneth some papers from his clipboard and Kenneth took them silently. 

I pressed my lips to Harry’s ear. “When will you talk to Kenneth about Liam?”

“I’ll do it today,” he said, noting the hostility between them. 

Kenneth cleared his throat and took his position at the front of the room, swinging his arms artfully as he addressed the company.

“Before your new choreographer arrives, I just want to acknowledge all of Maurice Charrat’s hard work.” Everyone clapped. “His departure was a huge loss to this production.” He shot Harry and I a reproachful look. 

Harry drew his knee up and yawned, content as a cat. He was so bad! 

“We were very, very lucky to find someone to replace him on such short notice. More than that, the choreographer we found to replace him happens to be one of the most esteemed members of this industry. He’s staged numerous productions of Swan Lake across Europe and has danced the ballet, both as Siegfried and Von Rothbart, fifty-two times over the course of his illustrious career. It is a huge honor for me to welcome him here today.”

Liam looked at his watch. 

The clock struck nine and the studio door flew open. Standing in the doorway was none other than Alexander Beauchamp. 

Every dancer in the room rose to their feet.

I broke away from Harry and ran into Beauchamp’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beauchamp is back.
> 
> I will probably only post one chapter next week. The Beauchamp chapters are tricky. This is the first time you get to see him through Louis’ eyes.


	25. Chapter 25

Beauchamp hadn’t changed one bit. He wore rimless glasses, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a silk midnight blue tie loosened around his collar. He even had the same umbrella with a wooden handle dangling off his tanned forearm. 

He broke our hug and held my shoulders. “Louis!” His kind eyes shone. “Look at you. You’re all grown up and dancing the lead. I’m so proud of you.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. Praise from Beauchamp felt like the light of a thousand suns.

“I can’t believe you’re here, Sir! I had no idea it would be you. I would have come yesterday to give you a proper welcome had I known.”

His long elegant hand clasped the back of my neck. “Please, we’re colleagues now. Call me Alex.”

“Alex,” I said, tasting the word on my tongue.

Even though we were colleagues I still felt like that little boy in the audience watching him dance for the first time. I was in awe of him now as I was then. He was everything I wanted to be. It wasn’t just his success that I wanted but his demeanor. His humility. His grace. I loved the way he moved in the world, with the unflinching pragmatism of a scientist but devoted to his art like a poet. I had other male role models in my life but Alex was the father of my deepest ambitions. 

Dancers crowded around him. Zayn vigorously shook his hand. Eleanor curtseyed. Gigi stood back and haughtily crossed her arms. He had always been dismissive of her talent when she was young, which she resented. 

Alex looked past them at Harry, who was leaning against the mirror. 

This felt right. Maybe it was the universe bringing the three of us together to heal the past. We were all equals now. We had all achieved what we’d set out to achieve. I didn’t feel competition with Harry for Alex’s attention, now I wanted to share it. I wanted the three of us to work together and inspire each other. 

With his hands behind his back, Alex slowly advanced toward him. 

“Hello, Harry.” 

He didn’t hug Harry but leaned over and kissed his cheek. 

I was moved by this and so were the other dancers who looked on with reverence. Here were two legends, each one the greatest dancer of his generation, joining forces for the first time in their careers. Alex looked at Harry like a son. It was so clear to me now the paternal love he felt for him. Harry had struggled to find his path as a dancer and Beauchamp did what he did best, he showed him that path and guided him.

“I’ve missed you.”

Harry tucked his hair behind his ears. 

“Well? Did you miss me?” 

“I’ve missed you, Alex.”

“No, no, no. You, my boy, must call me Sir.” 

He was joking of course but it wasn’t always easy to tell. His fine Patrician features shifted subtly, etched with lines from decades of playing a multitude of characters onstage.

At Liam’s request, dancers began to head out to the auditorium.

I approached Harry and Alex. “Shall we?” 

Alex exchanged looks with Kenneth. “Your master tutor, Joni, I believe, will be working with you and the rest of the cast in the auditorium. I’m working in the studio with Harry today.” 

He prodded Harry sharply in the back with his umbrella and ordered him to take his place at the barre. 

Oh fuck, I thought. Harry was not the boy Alex remembered from RBS. He would rip him apart for that. Kenneth, Liam and I held our breath and waited for the impending bloodbath.

Harry’s reaction stunned us all. 

He obeyed.

I was worried that Harry might treat Alex the way he treated Maurice. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Harry obediently stood at the barre and waited patiently for further instruction. 

“Strip,” said Alex.

“What?” Harry blanched.

“Down to your tights, sweetheart,” he smiled and placed a hand on Harry’s thigh. “I want to see your turnout.”

He froze for a second before complying. 

Alex circled around Harry examining every inch of him. 

“A little birdie told me you’ve been very difficult, Harry. Is this true?” 

“No,” he protested meekly.

“Not anymore, now that I’m here. You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

It was astonishing watching Harry submit to a choreographer, like watching a wild horse being tamed. Alex had the magic touch. In his presence, Harry reverted to an innocent schoolboy. I was charmed that Harry wanted to impress his old teacher, and charmed as Alex affectionately disciplined him. 

I darted over to Harry and kissed him quickly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” he said absentmindedly, staring at his turnout in the mirror. 

“I’ll come get you when you’re done. We can walk back to my place, grab dinner on the way—”

Alex pointed his umbrella at us and narrowed his eyes. “Wait just a minute… Are you two a couple?”

I tossed my head bashfully and hooked an arm around Harry’s waist. Our relationship was still so new it felt like a big step acknowledging it openly. 

“How adorable.” He grinned. “Siegfried and Von Rothbart in love!”

He pointed his umbrella at Harry’s chest. “I hope he treats you right, Louis.”

“He does,” I laughed, giving Harry one last peck on the lips. 

“I’m delighted for you both.” Alex glided around Harry and corrected his posture, addressing his refection in the mirror. “Harry, you must tell me all about your new romance. I’m dying to catch up.” 

I walked to the door and left Harry to his barre exercises. Alex stood right beside him, tapping his umbrella on the floor to keep count. _One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…_

Finally the pieces of my life were falling into place. Harry and I were together, we had put this Beauchamp rivalry behind us once and for all, and our idol was now our choreographer! I just had to resolve the small matter of my friends hating my guts. 

On the way to the auditorium I spotted Niall’s blonde quiff. We made eye contact but he quickly looked away and turned the corner pretending he hadn’t seen me. I chased him down. I may not have been able to fix things with Zayn, but Niall was too good-natured to stay mad at me.

“Oh, hi Louis. Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush—”

“This will only take a second.”

He clasped his hands in front of his waist impatiently. 

“I’m sorry about the intervention.”

“Well, it’s big of you to admit that you were wrong.”

“I didn’t say I was wrong.” I opened my knapsack and took out Harry’s notes on the libretto. 

Niall scoffed in disbelief. “I can’t believe you!”

“I’m not asking you to make the changes. Just read it. Give him a chance.” The pages had curled and crinkled in my knapsack. I smoothed them on my leg. “Please.”

“No, Harry shouldn’t be trying to undermine me and my position.” 

“Don’t do it for Harry. Do it for me.”

Niall rolled his eyes but took the papers. “I don’t understand the hold he has on you. I hope you know what you’re doing. I don’t want to see you get burned.”

“Don’t worry, all of mine and Harry’s issues are sorted. Things have never been better!” 

Niall looked unconvinced. He flipped through Harry’s notes. “You know, you’re the one who owes me a favor, not the other way around.” 

I checked my watch. I was late to rehearsal. Hurriedly, I hugged Niall and tore down the corridor. “I’ll buy you a pint. Two pints!” I called over my shoulder. “Thanks a million!” 

When I got to the auditorium, the girls were sitting cross-legged on the stage sewing ribbon onto their pointe shoes. Eleanor was crap at it and kept stabbing herself with the needle. She sucked on her bleeding thumb. Gigi’s nimble finger worked quickly, the needle and thread flying through the fabric with the speed of a sewing machine. She was furious, but for once it wasn’t about me or Harry. She was gossiping about Alex’s arrival.

“He’s a misogynist,” Gigi muttered to Eleanor and Zayn who was stretching beside them. “He plays favorites with the boys and treats the girls like shit.” 

“Jealous much?” I said, chucking my knapsack on the stage. I knew we were on the outs but I couldn’t help goading her. 

“I wasn’t talking to you, traitor! Anyway, you’re just happy because you’re one of his favorites!”

Zayn hugged his girlfriend from behind and rested his chin on her head. “I’m not one of his favorites and I like him.”

“Me too,” Eleanor quipped, cutting the thread with her teeth. “He’s sexy and rich and I hear he’s divorcing that ice queen Irina. Do you think he’d date me?”

“Ew!” Gigi cried. “He’s old. And no, I hear he’s a huge closet case. He makes male corps dancers blow him for solos.”

Gigi was so petty. Just because Alex wasn’t fond of her didn’t mean she had to spread vicious gossip.

“He’s not like that!” I barked. “Stop repeating rumors you heard from your cokehead friends in Paris. Even if he is gay he’s not obligated to come out. It’s different for someone of his generation.”

“I don’t care if he’s out or not. He shouldn’t play favorites and use the companies he works for as his own private brothels.”

“He would never do that!” I said, getting in her face. 

She threw down her pointe shoes. “He would and he has!”

Needless to say, rehearsal did not go well. I had a hard time pretending I was madly in love with Gigi on a good day. During our lifts I fought the urge to throw her across the stage and I was pretty sure she tried to kick my head in during the adagio.

I was relieved when it was time to work on my solo. This was my first time working on it since Harry and I made love. I understood him now. I felt so close to him his choreography no longer felt foreign to me. It felt like him; his body on top of me, inside me. It didn’t feel like doing a solo but like we were dancing together. I knew that this was his way of reaching out. He hadn’t been trying to control me. This was a love letter, it was how he communicated, how he showed he cared. 

It made me miss him terribly. 

We’d only been apart for a few hours but it felt like years. As soon as rehearsal ended I ran to the studio to pick him up so we could go home together. I couldn’t wait to talk about our day. I wanted to hear all about his rehearsal with Alex, and tell him about Niall agreeing to consider his notes. 

The studio door was closed. I rose up on my toes and peeked through the small square window to catch a glimpse of him dancing. 

My heart dropped. 

Harry was lying on the floor, his tights and t-shirt drenched in sweat, his skin the color of clay. 

Alex was pacing beside him.

I burst through the door and stood there, horrified. “Harry! What happened? Are you okay?”

Alex dashed up to me. “Oh, Louis, thank God you’re here! I was just about to fetch Liam.”

Harry was so pale I could have sworn he was dead. I kneeled by his side. He wouldn’t look at me me. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Alex pulled me aside. “He’s having problems with his knee,” he said under his breath, raking a hand through his silver hair. “He hasn’t been able to get through his solo once but he refuses to take a break.”

“I can get through it. It’s perfect. I’m the best. I’m the best dancer in the world, I’m greatest living dancer…” Harry rambled, his eyes darting between us unfocused. He crawled over to his bag in the corner and got his pain pills. He swallowed two without water. I wondered how many pills he had taken already. 

He tried to stand. First he got to his knees and then slowly to his feet. He fell over. Alex ran and caught him in his arms.

“I don’t need your help! I can do this on my own!”

He was completely unhinged, worse than he ever was with Maurice. Only he wasn’t fighting Alex, he was fighting himself. He was tearing himself to pieces trying to prove a point. I’d never seen a young dancer challenge a retired dancer’s legacy. But Harry appeared to be doing just that. 

“Harry, it’s late and you need to rest. Let’s go home.” I began to pack his things. 

“Listen to Louis,” Alex said. “He’s right. You’re too weak.” 

“No, I’m strong,” Harry said quietly, holding himself. “I’m strong.”

He began to limply move through his solo. The pills may have numbed the pain but his body was broken. It was like watching a corpse in water floating along with the current. 

He wouldn’t stop, so I grabbed him and shook him. “Enough!”

“Get out!” he shot back and pushed me.

I threw his bag on the ground. “Are you going to kill yourself just to prove a point?”

“Don’t lecture me about something you don’t understand!”

“You’re right, I don’t understand it!” I yelled, flailing my arms. “Please explain to me how destroying your body makes you the best dancer in the world!”

Harry lunged at me and I grabbed his wrists. 

What I really wanted to say was: why do you need to be the best dancer in the world? Why isn’t it enough that you are the best everything to me? Why aren’t I enough? Why have I never been enough for you?

Alex came between us and led me to the door. “Go, Louis. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

I wanted to throw him over my shoulder and carry him out of there, but I knew Alex was right. Harry was stubborn and would never give in. We just had to wait until he saw reason or tired himself out. 

I gave Harry one last pleading look. “I’ll be on the front steps waiting for you,” I said finally in defeat. 

Harry didn’t answer me. He was moving again, his eyes hopelessly fixed on the mirror, on every clumsy leap, every incomplete turn. 

As much as he probably hated to admit it, he needed me. He’d taken his painkillers, which meant he couldn’t take his sleeping pills and he was in desperate need of rest. I knew how to take care of him. I would take care of him. 

I chain-smoked half a pack on the opera house steps, obsessively checking my watch. The afternoon rainfall had given way to a heavy blanket of fog. The city around me was reduced to blinking lights and shapeless masses. Buildings and cars looked like ships lost at sea. 

Harry would be in a terrible mood, I was sure of it. I was glad I had that tiny piece of good news about Niall to share with him. I needed to get him out of this toxic headspace he was in and cheer him up. 

The door opened behind me. I sat up straight. 

It was just Jeffrey. He and a few of his girlfriends, fellow corps dancers, spilled out the door. They were all wearing colorful leg warmers and talking animatedly about going out clubbing, Jeffrey despairing about the tired gay scene. I don’t think he was tired of it. I think he thought hating things made him sound sophisticated. 

He saw me and broke away from his posse. 

“Hey, you still have my stuff.” 

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll bring a box by your place.” 

The girls were out on the street hailing a taxi beckoning Jeffrey to join them. 

He wasn’t done with me yet. Jeffrey crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m waiting for Harry. He’s in rehearsal.”

“Um, no he’s not. I saw him leave out the back entrance.” He cocked his head. “I guess he ditched you. I hate to say I told you so but… I TOLD YOU SO.”

I didn’t have the patience for his petty jealousies right now. “Stop trying to cause drama!”

Jeffrey turned his nose up and sniffed. “Fine, don’t believe me. You can sit out here until dawn for all I care.” 

He left with his gaggle of girls, the scent of their perfume trailing in the air as they zipped around the street corner. 

I waited another half hour and there was still no sign of Harry. I called him. Nothing. I texted him. Nothing. 

The heavy Plexiglas doors opened again. It was Alex and he was alone. 

“Where’s Harry?” I asked. 

Alex sat on the step beside me with a sigh and placed his briefcase on the step below. “He left an hour ago. Don’t take it personally, Louis. He was very disappointed in his performance today.”

It was personal. Harry and I were a team. He needed me. I needed him. We had become so close. I didn’t understand why he would want to spend time apart. I wanted to be with him all the time. 

I felt so low I sunk into the concrete steps. 

Alex shifted out of his jacket and put it around my shoulders. He lifted his chin at my cigarette. “Can I have one?”

I handed him a cigarette and lit it as it hung from his lips. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t. Not officially. Unofficially: a pack a day.”

I felt myself smile a little. “Same.”

“How long have you and Harry been together, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“It’s new. Very new. It just happened. But it doesn’t feel that way. I’ve cared about him for as long as I’ve known him.” 

I was surprised how easy it was to confide in Alex. I was normally too nervous to spit out a single sentence around him. 

“I can see how much you care about him.”

I flicked my cigarette and watched the red sparks skip down the steps. “I don’t think he feels the same way about me.”

“He should. You’re a fine young man.”

“I’m not as successful as he is. You two are on the same level professionally. You understand each other. Today I felt like an outsider.”

Alex leaned back on one elbow and exhaled up into the night sky. “Nonsense. You’re very accomplished, Louis. I actually think I have more in common with you than I do with Harry.” 

“You do?”

“You’re a realist. You understand that dance is about the body. Muscle and bone. Athleticism and technique. Harry’s a dreamer. He’s too wrapped up in the story, the characters, their emotions. The demands he places on his body are ludicrous. He refuses to acknowledge his own limitations.”

That’s what I loved most about Harry’s dancing. It felt limitless. It wasn’t of this world. It was a glimpse of heaven. 

Alex went into my shirt pocket and pulled out another cigarette. It was my last one. “You know what I remember most about you, Louis?” 

My eyes widened. “What?” 

“The way you cried the day I took Harry to Kiev.” 

My head fell against my knees and I groaned. “That was so embarrassing.” 

“It was darling! I’ve never had a student cry over me like that. I was touched.” 

He passed the cigarette to me and I took a drag. 

“I regret it,” he said. “I should have brought you with me to Kiev. You would have made a much better companion. Harry’s moody.”

I passed the cigarette back to him. “Why _did_ you choose Harry?”

His dark eyes clouded over with smoke. “The same reason you’re out here on these steps. The same reason Sergei asked him to join the Bolshoi. The same reason Kenneth lets him get away with murder. He’s a beautiful monster, isn’t he?” 

I laughed sadly. “He is.”

Alex’s car pulled up. 

I shrugged off his jacket to hand back to him. 

“Hang onto it,” he said. “You need it more than I do.”

“Thanks,” I said, and as he began to walk away I added, “I’m glad you’re here, Alex.” 

“Me too.”


	26. Chapter 26

Two weeks. Every day for two weeks I waited for him on those steps and Harry never showed. No explanation. No apology. Nothing. 

Every day I texted:

_I’m waiting for you._

_I’m here._

_I’m not leaving._

I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I made when we were in school. I wasn’t going to let him push me away. I wasn’t going to give up on him. 

I dragged myself into the studio on a cool grey Tuesday morning, the coffee in my hands burning the pads of my fingers. I was exhausted after a long night of waiting for Harry, who was once again a no show. 

I was working alone with Alex that morning. It was the only thing I had to look forward to. All of my friends were ignoring me. Even Niall, who had agreed to implement Harry’s notes, was still a bit cagey, and I didn’t need to hear another “I told you so” about my problems with Harry. 

Alex had me begin with some barre exercises: demi-plié, plié, slow tendu, fast tendu, slow dégagé, fast dégagé, before moving onto grand rond de jambe en l'air. Standing on my right leg, I slowly unfurled my left and circled it around me. Alex caught my ankle and lifted my leg a touch higher. 

“You’re muscles are tense. Are you injured?” 

Only my heart. 

“No,” I answered. “Just a little stiff.” 

He massaged my quadriceps with his strong hands before circling my leg behind me and massaging my hamstrings, the heel of his hand working deep into the muscle tissue.

“Better?”

“Much.” 

He let go and watched me with his arms crossed. He pushed his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose and had me move onto my solo in Act One, the one Harry had choreographed. I had done it so many times now it was perfect, but the accomplishment was bittersweet. 

“Beautiful, Louis!” he gushed.

It was Harry’s ideas that were beautiful, his mind. The mind I loved that didn’t love me back. 

When I was done, Alex handed me a towel and a bottle of water. His hand lingered on mine. He could sense from my heavy performance that I had a lot on my mind. 

“How are things between you and Harry?”

“Not good.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

In addition to coaching me in the studio, Alex had been coaching me in my love life. I was shy opening up to him at first but he was eager to help and I valued his opinion. He cared about both me and Harry and wanted us to be happy. So, piece-by-piece, I told him everything about our relationship: the fights, the intervention, the sex and the silence. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!”

Alex put an arm around me. “He’s the one that’s wrong if he can’t see how special you are.” 

Our rehearsal was technically over but Alex sent away the soloist that was scheduled to rehearse right after me. With the flick of his wrist the rest of the world disappeared. All of our rehearsals were like this. We would work for a bit and then talk for hours. Alex was a really good listener. He was my diary. I could tell him practically anything. 

“Do you think he’s moved onto someone better looking?”

“Better looking than you? Not possible.”

“I probably scared him off. I told him I loved him after two nights together! He didn’t say it back…”

Alex tsked. “Harry’s always been very cold.” 

“I just wish he would talk to me,” I huffed, clutching the towel around my neck. 

“I’d put in a good word for you, Louis, but he doesn’t talk to me either.”

Alex sat on the ground with his back against the mirror, a knee casually drawn up to his chest. I stretched out on my side in front of him. 

“Harry should be kinder to you. You’re a legend!”

He laughed. “I’m hardly a legend anymore. I haven’t danced in ages. I’m surprised you even remember my performances.” 

I bolted upright. “I remember every single one. Even the ones I didn’t see in person I’ve watched a million times online. I still watch them once in a while for inspiration. Ondine at The Paris Opera Ballet, 2004. Oh my god. Your Palemon changed my life!” 

“You remember that?”

I could picture it in vivid detail, his prefect lines slicing the air like a knife.

“Yes, of course! It was the first time you danced with Julie Kent. It was historic!” 

He leaned in and whispered, “She was a nightmare. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Worse than Gigi?”

“Maybe not that bad.” 

I was cackling. 

“I would do anything to watch you dance again… Can’t you dance for me now?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Louis, I doubt I could manage a pirouette at my age.”

I pressed my hands together. “Please, please, please, please.”

His expression softened and he stood up. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He rolled up his sleeves and kicked off his patent leather shoes. “I’m not sure I can move in this outfit.”

“I have an extra pair of tights!”

“Don’t push it, Tomlinson.”

He began dancing a short piece from Ondine. His movement was limited by his slacks and button-down but I could still see what I loved about his dancing all those years ago. The way he attacked each pose like he was in a duel. His dancing was violent, lively and exciting. 

I jumped up and clapped when he was finished. He bowed, out of breath. 

“I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“You were amazing, Sir—I mean, Alex.”

“I think I’ll leave the dancing to you from now on.” 

I handed him my water bottle and he kissed the top of my head.

Alex and I left the studio arm-in-arm, continuing our chat. We rounded the corner and ran right into Gigi and her punishingly tight ponytail. She narrowed her eyes and bulldozed her way past us. Alex and I took one look at each other and burst out laughing. 

We parted ways at the end of the corridor. Alex waved and left me for his private session with Harry. I headed into studio A to rehearse Act Two with Joni and the rest of the cast. This was not the fun laid-back atmosphere of my rehearsal with Alex. The mood in the room was muted. Dancers spoke in hushed tones and when I approached them they avoided eye contact. 

Something had happened. 

Immediately my mind went to Harry. His knee. Was he hurt?

I asked Zayn. He had a crowd around him and seemed to be fielding questions. 

“What’s happened?” 

He surveyed me, his dark eyes swimming with sorrow. “What do you think?” 

The cluster of dancers broke apart. I begged them to tell me what had happened but they all scurried to their barre exercises and refused to answer. 

I wasn’t going to stick around and try to coax it out of them. If something was wrong with Harry, I needed to know now.

I left the studio and ran to Liam’s office. He knew everything about every dancer in the company and if something had happened to Harry he wouldn’t keep it from me. We may not have been getting along but Liam treated the whole company like family. If one of us was in trouble that trumped any argument.

His office looked completely different. It looked bigger. The mounds of paperwork on his desk were gone as were the plaques and trophies on his bookcase. The walls were naked. Dark shadows marked where posters and papers had hung, the paint around them sun-bleached.

There was a large brown banker’s box in the corner filled to the brim with books and picture frames, the green leaves of his office plant peeking out the top. His cane and tweed jacket sat slumped on his chair. 

Liam entered the room behind me with no greeting. 

I knew now what had happened, I just had no idea what to say. I swallowed. “You’re leaving?”

“I was fired.”

This couldn’t be happening. Not to Liam. My chest twisted with guilt. Saying I was sorry didn’t even begin to cover it. Apologizing would almost be an insult to the blow he had suffered. 

“Liam, what can I do?”

“Nothing. I don’t want anything from you.” He fumbled around with a few small items of memorabilia: ticket stubs, a stack of old programmes, a signed ballet slipper. He tucked these items—with the care Liam showed all precious things—into his box. Then he placed the lid on top. 

“I’m here for you,” I said.

“I don’t want your friendship.” 

He took another look around the room, touched his old desk and touched the wall, saying a silent goodbye. Then he threw his modest brown jacket over his arm and picked up his cane and box. 

“Here, let me help you to your car at least.”

Liam shrugged me off. He ambled out the door where Zayn was waiting to help him. Zayn took the box, affording Liam a bit of dignity as he walked away from the truest home he had ever known. 

I watched as he staggered down the corridor with his head down. Liam had now lost everything: the ability to dance for the Royal Ballet Company and now the honor of working for the company. The worst part was that I couldn’t even be there for him. My presence made it worse. He saw me as the cause of his misfortune and he was right. 

I didn’t understand what went wrong with my plan. I was positive that if Harry spoke to Kenneth he could save Liam’s job. I had to find Harry and find out exactly what was said.

Harry was in studio B pacing while Alex sat on a foldout chair, fingers steepled, waiting for him to perform. Harry had dark circles beneath his eyes and his curly hair hung limply on his fair shoulders. He adjusted the brace on his knee. His knee was bothering him, I could tell from the loathing in his eyes. He only ever looked at one person that way: himself.

He was paler, thinner than he was just a few weeks before. His technique was perfect but I could tell that these physical feats came from the darkest part of him. He was in agony dancing for his old mentor. Ever since Alex’ arrival Harry had been in freefall. It made no sense. Harry didn’t have anything to prove. He was the greatest living dancer. His vision for the production was being implemented. There were no battles left to fight, so why was he still fighting? 

He hated being interrupted but this was too important. I apologized to Alex and led Harry into the corridor.

“What did you say to Kenneth about Liam?”

“What?” he replied, disoriented, leaning against the cool, stone wall for support. “What do you mean?”

“You did talk to Kenneth about Liam, right?” I asked slowly.

Harry didn’t respond but his silence spoke volumes.

“You promised! You promised me you would talk to Kenneth if I helped you with Niall and the orchestra and your vision!”

Harry was listless, his hollow green eyes staring right through me. “I—I forgot.” 

“You forgot! Jesus fucking Christ, Harry, this is Liam’s career, his life! How could you forget something like that?”

Harry dragged his hands down his gaunt face like it was the mask of a man he was trying to tear off. 

“I don’t know! I haven’t slept in days! I can’t think straight!”

“You think about your own career just fine!”

I had a flashback to our fight at RBS. Harry hadn’t changed. Liam, Zayn, Gigi, they were all right. Harry was as selfish now as he was then. I was an idiot for thinking he was capable of caring about me or anyone else. 

“I’m so sorry, Louis,” he said. 

“That’s not good enough!”

I stormed off and left him standing there torn between me and the studio. If he cared, he would follow me. He wouldn’t just say he was sorry, he would show me he was sorry. He would fight for me. But the only footsteps I heard were my own. 

In spite of everything, my words to myself that morning kept beating like a drum: Don’t give up on him, don’t let him push you away. But how I could I stick by someone who was so thoughtless, so selfish and cruel? 

One cigarette, I thought, just one. I sat on the Opera House steps and had six smokes, not waiting exactly but fulfilling the ritual of waiting. This is what I did. I waited for Harry to care about me, just like I waited for him to disappoint me. A relationship with Harry would be a lifetime of waiting. A cycle of highs and crushing lows. 

I was about to give up and leave when I sensed someone crouch down behind me. My entire being swelled with hope. I felt the warmth of two strong arms wrap around my shoulders. I tilted my head. 

It was Alex. 

“I heard about Liam,” he said. 

“It’s my fault.”

His arms tightened around me. “Non, mon chéri! You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“I never should have sided with Harry. I should have been loyal to Liam.” I threw down my cigarette and crushed it under my heel.

At that moment, Alex’s town car pulled up to the curb. He stood and looked down at me, the lamplight illuminating his silver hair like a halo. 

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked, motioning to the car. 

I was blindsided by the question. Me, have dinner with Alexander Beauchamp? 

“Really?”

“You’ve had such a hard day. You shouldn’t be alone. Let me treat you.”

I looked down at my joggers and touched my matted hair. “Sir, I would love to but I’m not dressed properly.”

“We can stop by your place on the way.” He fingers skated over the thin fabric of my t-shirt, tracing my collarbone. “I want you in your finest suit.”

Alex extended his hand and I took it graciously. It was then that I realized that unlike Harry, Alex was a true friend, someone who would be there for me when I needed him most. 

He guided me down the steps to the black car and held the door for me. 

As I was climbing into the backseat, Harry appeared at the top of the Opera House steps. His face fell when he saw that I was leaving with Alex. 

He was too late. I was done waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ve noticed some parallels between this story and Swan Lake. I wanted to structure it in a similar way. I see this part being thematically linked to the black swan/Siegfried pas de deux in Act Three, the scene where Odile seduces Siegfried while Odette watches. 
> 
> Just a reminder, Louis is an adult in his early 20s here. This is not the same situation he and Harry were in at fifteen (though I did want it to echo that moment). 
> 
> I'm really sorry if this fic seems to be moving slowly. The chapter where Louis finds out needs some setup. I have a day off next week so I will post 2 chapters, both will take place during Louis' evening with Alex.


	27. Chapter 27

I only had one good suit, the Gieves & Hawkes suit the company paid for that I wore to every formal function. I showered and dressed quickly, parting my hair neatly to the side and tucking it behind my ear. Alex was waiting for me in the car. I didn’t know where he was taking me but it didn’t matter, I trusted his taste implicitly. 

As I was leaving I paused and picked up the ribbon tie Harry had left in my flat after our first night together. The gold thread caught the light and shimmered prettily in my palm. I didn’t know whether to kiss it or rip it to shreds. I tied it around my wrist. At the very least it would serve as a reminder not to get tangled up with him again. 

Alex was outside smoking when I got downstairs. He stomped out his cigarette and opened the car door. Leaning back on the black leather seats, he checked the tag on my jacket. “Gieves & Hawkes.” He smiled. “I danced for the Royal Ballet for six years before I went to Paris. In the old days we used to joke that the only thing more important than a good audition was being able to fill out a Gieves & Hawkes suit!”

I tugged my lapels. “How am I doing?”

“Just fine.”

We drove past Grosvenor chapel on South Audley Street in Mayfair. I still had no idea where we were going, until we turned onto Park Lane and pulled up to the Dorchester. Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester was one of the most expensive restaurants in London, with three Michelin stars. I knew he would take me to a nice restaurant but this was more than nice. Only the city’s elite dined here and even they had to wait months for a reservation. 

The main floor of the restaurant was bathed in gold light that matched the small flash of gold on my wrist. I soon learned that we wouldn’t be dining on the main floor. There were three private dining rooms: Table Lumière, Salon Park Lane, and Salon Privé, the most intimate of the three. 

Alex said something in French to the waiter and the portly man led us to Salon Privé. It was darker in there than the main floor, the only source of light a fireplace in the corner. The thick button-tufted walls drowned out the sound of the other diners. It was so quiet I could hear the squeak of Alex cleaning his glasses on his handkerchief. 

I looked around for a menu when Alex said softly, “I took the liberty of ordering ahead. I hope you like French cuisine.”

“I’ll love whatever you’ve chosen. Your taste is exquisite.” 

He’d ordered us the menu dégustation, the tasting menu, which consisted of seven courses, and a vintage bottle of Clos De La Roche for 1,300 quid. It was the most money anyone had ever paid for a bottle of wine in my presence. I was afraid to drink it but I did. It was delectable. 

“This is too much, Sir.”

He topped off my glass. “Oh come now, you’re my favorite. Let me spoil you!”

The first course was Dorset crab, celeriac and caviar. 

I pulled apart the crab carefully with my fork and knife, while Alex discussed the possibility of him taking up a permanent post with the Royal Ballet as resident choreographer. 

It was such an honor to be here with him in such an incredible place, and he’d obviously gone out of his way, but my mind was still on Harry. I couldn’t let myself be happy after the way Harry had disappointed me.

Alex noticed I was down. He touched his cloth napkin to his lips before draping it across his lap again. “Cheer up! I hate seeing you so sad. You’ve always had such a pleasant disposition. It’s what I love about you.”

I nibbled on the caviar. “I’m sorry. This Harry situation—I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You know, Louis, I didn’t want to say this before because you were so adamant about your feelings for him, but I don’t think you two are right for each other.”

I looked into his dark eyes, confused. “I thought you said we were good together?”

“That was before I saw how poorly he treats you. It’s been so hard biting my tongue while he takes advantage of you.” Alex shook his head, distraught. “Remember, I’ve had the kind of success that Harry is having now. I managed not to let the whole thing go to my head because I had a greater perspective on the matter. I was raised in high society. My mother is a Cavendish and my father was the French Ambassador. Harry was raised above a pub in Cheshire. There’s no shame in that, of course, but he wasn’t prepared for this life. He doesn’t have the temperament for it.”

“I don’t understand him. I did everything he asked. I put all my friendships in jeopardy just so he could get his way and this is how he repays me?”

“It’s terrible what money and fame can do to a person, isn’t it?” He picked up the bottle. “More wine?”

“Please.” 

The waiter brought out the guinea fowl and duck foie gras. 

“I was so sure he cared about me!” I didn’t want to spend the whole dinner blubbering about Harry but after my third glass of wine I couldn’t help myself. “When we were, you know, intimate, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. He was so innocent and passionate at the same time… He made me feel like I was the only man who ever mattered to him.” 

Alex spread the foie gras with his knife. “I don’t mean to burst your bubble but I hear Harry’s made a lot of men feel that way.”

I looked down at my lap, completely gutted. 

“Why do I have the worst luck in relationships? Jeffrey was a child, Harry a sociopath. What is wrong with me?” 

The next course floated down in front of us. ‘Sauté gourmand’ of lobster and truffled chicken quenelles. 

Alex fed me a piece of lobster with his hand. “I wish I had some advice for you my pet but I’m afraid I’m in a similar boat. Irina and I are getting divorced.”

“No!”

He folded his hands over his plate. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumors… about me and other men.”

I held up my hand. “Sir, I just want you to know that I don’t listen to that sort of gossip and I never repeat it. You’re personal life is your business and I respect that.”

“It’s all true. I do prefer men. Younger men.”

I may have been tipsy but things were beginning to come into focus. 

“Oh, well, um, I’m happy that you’re finally being true to yourself. It takes courage to leave a marriage.”

“Irina wasn’t shocked. She’s known for years. Our marriage was a meeting of the minds not the hearts.”

He was staring at me. I cleared my throat. “It’s the end of an era. You two made an incredible team.”

“You and I make a pretty good team, don’t you think?” He reached across the table and took my hand.

In all my years of obsessing over Alex, I had never once thought of him romantically. I wanted to be him, not be with him. He was so much older. He was married. To a woman! I had absolutely no idea that he saw me as anything more than a pupil and a colleague. I was so surprised I didn’t even know how to react. The wine was doing the reacting for me. I withdrew into myself and became shy. 

Mercifully, the waiter interrupted us with the line-caught sea bass and courgette blossom.

We ate in silence for a while.

“I’m attracted to you, Louis,” he said, shadows from the fire dancing on his face. 

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll come home with me tonight.”

Oh my God. Did he just ask me that? He did. I looked at the ribbon on my wrist. 

“Alex, I’m flattered but it’s just too soon. I’m not over Harry.”

The duck breast, peach and beetroot arrived. 

“I hate what Harry’s doing to you,” he scolded. “You deserve so much better. Not someone who will manipulate and control you and hurt your dearest friends.” 

I picked at the duck. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right!”

Unbeknownst to me Alex had ordered a second bottle of Clos De La Roche and poured me another glass.

He stretched back, full from our last course. He was still handsome. His features had hardened, but they were as striking as they were in his youth: the cut jaw and cheekbones, the deep set eyes, the heavy brow and full mouth. His hair was a brilliant silver but it made him look distinguished not old. 

“I would treat you like a prince, Louis.”

But I was Harry’s prince, I thought. He said that once. 

Next came an assortment of four French cheeses. I tried to eat as much as I could to absorb the wine. I had a lot more to drink than I’d intended. The creamy cheeses filled my mouth with a smooth saltiness that was almost too rich to bear. 

Alex’s leg brushed up against mine under the table. 

“Have you dated much since you came out?” I asked, not really sure what to say after his brazen proposition.

“A lot,” he sighed. “I’ve had more love affairs than I can count. I’m ready to settle down with one man. I’m not getting any younger. I want a companion. It sounds like that’s what you want too.”

I nodded. “I want someone to love who loves me back.” 

Maybe that someone was Alex. I’d loved him my whole life, not romantically, not yet, but I what if I could? 

The waiter brought out the last course. Summer berry contemporary vacherin. It was colorful and artfully arranged on the small white plate. Alex paired it with a dessert wine, a bottle of Château d’Yquem. The sweet wine mixed with the acidity of berry made the flavors sing in my mouth. Alex’s pallet was as discerning as his eye. 

“I love watching you enjoy yourself.” Alex beamed. 

“No one’s ever taken me to a place like this before.”

“Not even Harry? I imagine dating the highest paid danseur in the world has its perks.”

I remembered eating pizza with Harry on the floor of his barren flat in our boxers after making love. It was a far cry from Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, but it was just as good in a completely different way.

“Harry preferred to stay in.” I felt my cheeks redden. 

Alex smiled once he got my meaning. 

“Understandable, but you deserve someone who will take care of you. I wish I had a gorgeous young man like you to lavish my attentions on. I’d take you out every night. I wouldn’t keep you cooped up at home. You’re too pretty, Louis. I’d want to show you off.”

I’d had older men flirt with me in the past but none so persistent as Alex. I’d also never been with anyone who wanted to take care of me before. I was the caregiver. When Harry called me his prince, it wasn’t because he wanted to spoil me with riches, it was because he wanted me to slay his dragons. 

We had espressos and then Alex got the cheque. He didn’t let me see how much it all cost. I was grateful. I probably would have fainted. 

He led me through the main dining area by the small of my back. A few people recognized him and nodded in his direction. I could see that he enjoyed this: being seen, being seen with me. 

Outside, we shared a smoke and waited for his car to arrive. My head and limbs were heavy from the wine. I leaned against a streetlight, my tie flapping in the wind. 

“Are you sure you won’t come home with me?”

I looked away with an embarrassed smile. “I’m sure.” 

The ride back to my flat was dead silent. I hoped I hadn’t offended him. He didn’t seem cross. He exuded a quiet confidence like always. 

The cityscape swam by in a blur of lights and inky darkness. My head was spinning and I pressed it against the glass to steady myself. We hit a patch of traffic at Leicester Square. I heard the driver say something about a terrible accident—a three-car pile up. We came to a complete stop. I craned my neck out the window. I couldn’t see the accident, but there, illuminated in big bright lights, was a billboard for Swan Lake. It was the first time I’d seen it. Liam and Harry had compromised on the design. It wasn’t a photo of Harry, but a painting of him, done in the impressionist style of the late 1800s. The quick brushstrokes and vibrant colors merged to create a single striking image. It was beautiful not only because it looked so much like him and he was beautiful, but because it echoed the revolutionary artwork that he loved so much. Then all the tears I had bottled up during dinner came tumbling down. 

I turned to Alex. “Why doesn’t he love me?” 

Before I even knew what I was doing, my head fell on his chest. 

“Oh, Louis. My poor Louis.” 

His arms enveloped me. 

Traffic sped up again and Alex brushed the tears off my cheeks. “Don’t worry my pet, you’re almost home.”

“No, take me back to your place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know… Don’t kill me! I’ll post the continuation of this scene on Friday.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, Louis is an adult. He is 22.

Alex lived alone in a townhouse in Knightsbridge. The property had been in his family for generations. I could feel the weight of history as he swung open the double doors. The entrance hall alone contained more art and antique furnishings than a museum. I took off my jacket, careful not to knock over the Ming Dynasty vases on either side of me. 

An ornate Turkish rug led into the drawing room. It was everything I expected and more. A beaded chandelier sparkled in the center of the room like a supernova. The paneled walls, couches, settee and silk pillows were all ivory with bronze piping. The Edwardian cabinets and side tables were a rich lacquered oak, and the tassled drapes, heavy, velvet and royal blue. There wasn’t an inch of the place that wasn’t dripping in luxury.

Alex glided over to the liquor cabinet. “Cognac?” 

I shouldn’t have had anything more to drink that night but I said yes.

There were statuettes and framed photos of dancers on every surface. They looked like headstones, tiny graveyards of memories. I thought I spotted a photo of Harry but it was Hans. He was in black tights and a white bodysuit, standing in fifth position with his small hand on the barre. It wasn’t taken at RBS. It must have been a studio in Paris where Alex had trained him privately. I glanced around and realized that there were dozens of photos of Hans: in the studio, in costume, onstage, backstage. There were also personal photos of Alex and Hans on a beach in the South of France, in his home in Paris, hugging at a gala… 

I’d forgotten how close they were. Poor Alex. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, embracing him. I felt guilty. Here I was complaining about my breakup with Harry all night when Alex was still mourning the loss of his dearest pupil. 

“It was a shock.” He sat on the settee and held the cognac with both hands. “Hanging. What a horrible way to die. The cord didn’t break his neck, you know. He strangled to death. I think about how long it must have taken. It keeps me up at night.”

That was almost exactly what Harry said about Hans’ suicide. Neither seemed to wonder why he did it. I wondered.

“You did so much for him while he was still with us.”

“Yes, and in death. His parents asked me to deliver the eulogy at his funeral.” Languidly, Alex crossed one leg over the other. 

I continued to wander through his memories. There were several photos of his wife Irina, and Boris Polzin who he danced with at the Paris Opera Ballet. There were more students too. He’d mentored a boy at RBS before Hans, and four other boys at École de Danse de l’Opéra. Gigi was right. He did favor boys. But that was not unusual, was it? Alex was a male dancer, he probably felt more attached to the boys because he saw himself in them. What I did find unusual was that there were no photos of Harry. 

He knew what I was searching for. Alex walked over to the bookcase and took down a small silver frame. 

“Here’s the little devil. I would have taken more but Harry hated being photographed. He wouldn’t even smile for this one. I took it during our trip to Paris.”

The Harry I remembered always had a huge froggy grin in photos. 

When I held the silver frame in my hands my eyes widened. He was a baby! Creamy complexion, chubby cheeks, pouty pink lips and a stubborn chin, under a mass of wild curls. It seemed impossible that he was ever that young. I couldn’t stop staring at it. 

I was insanely jealous of Harry when he left for that trip. Stuck at school, I imagined the incredible time he was having, at all the best parties with the most sophisticated people. It was a pretty photo of him but this was not at all what I had pictured. He looked miserable. When I examined the photo more closely, I noticed something else that was very strange. 

“My cufflinks.”

“What?”

“I lent Harry my cufflinks to wear to the ballet. He’s not wearing them.”

Alex took the photo and put it back on the shelf. “It doesn’t surprise me. Harry was an ungrateful child. He still is. He doesn’t appreciate anything. Look at all I did for him. Did I ever get a thank you? No.” 

“He told me he wore them,” I said. It wasn’t like him to lie like that, just like it wasn’t like him to frown in a photo. 

Alex threw an arm around me and together we sat on the couch. He pointed to a photo of he and Hans, side by side on a sandy beach.

“Hans was the opposite of Harry. He constantly repaid me for all that I did for him. It’s like the song goes, ‘only the good die young.’ ” 

I loosened my tie. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking so much about Harry.”

He picked up my hand and kissed it. “It’s quite alright,” he purred. “Harry wronged you. You should be angry.” I could smell the fruity, metallic notes of the cognac on his lips. Alex’s words fed the worst part of me but I was hungry for them. “Harry doesn’t love you. He doesn’t deserve you. He’s selfish. He hurt you. He hurt your friend.”

“I hate him for what he did to Liam.” 

“Liam is the latest in a long line of career casualties. Harry did the same thing to several colleagues at the Bolshoi. Don’t worry, my pet. I’ve decided to take the position of resident choreographer.” Alex pressed his forehead to mine. “I’ll protect you.”

I sank deeper into the plush couch. Alex took the glass from my hand. My head was swimming after that last drink. As I blinked, time seemed to be moving faster and slower at once. I closed my eyes for what felt like a second and when I opened them again, Alex’s hand was in my hair. 

“Your hair is such a lovely color, like a fawn in springtime. I like how it darkens when you sweat.”

I blinked again and his hands were on my shirt undoing the buttons one by one. 

“You’re as pretty now as you were at fifteen.”

We shouldn’t be doing this, I thought. I didn’t want to risk ruining our working relationship, especially if he was going to take a permanent position with the company. But I didn’t want him to stop either. I was so lonely, so starved for affection. I missed Harry, but Alex was right: Harry didn’t love me, he never did. 

I sat there limply and let his hand trail over my naked chest. 

“Let’s play a game,” he said, removing his glasses and placing them on the coffee table.

“What kind of game?”

He licked his lips. “You be the pupil and I’ll be your teacher.”

“Can’t we just be ourselves?”

“It will be more fun this way.” He squeezed my thigh. “Trust me.”

My stomach fluttered. “Okay.” I wasn’t really into roleplaying and I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do. His request made me a little uneasy given that I actually had been his pupil at one time, but a lot of men had this fantasy, a lot of men wanted what was forbidden. 

“Have you ever kissed a boy, Louis?” he asked. 

I thought for a moment about how he might want me to respond. “No, Sir, I’ve never tried it…”

He smiled. “Let me teach you.”

He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and put his mouth on mine. His kisses were sharp and forceful, like his tongue was trying to lash me into submission. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, wiping the corners of my mouth with his thumb.

“Yes, Sir.”

I didn’t like it exactly but I liked pleasing him. His approval was like a drug.

He kissed me again, even rougher this time, fisting my hair. 

I gasped. 

He took my hand and placed it between his legs. He was hard. “Look what you’ve done,” he scolded. “You see what you’re doing to me, Louis?” He was no longer the sympathetic listener and friend, or the amiable dinner companion. He was now the severe instructor who could bring a young dancer to his knees. 

I nodded meekly. 

“Well? What are you going to do about it?” 

I bit my bottom lip and began to rub him through his pants. I purposefully made my movements unknowing, like this was all new to me. Once I understood what he wanted I played the role of the naïve ingénue to the letter.

He growled and grabbed my hand. We locked eyes and slowly he drew the gold ribbon off my wrist with his teeth. It floated between the cushions. 

“Sit on my lap,” he ordered.

I straddled him and swiftly he unfastened my tie and tugged off my shirt. I felt his fingers dance over my throat before roughly twisting my arms behind my back. I was stronger than him but I played along and pretended I couldn’t escape. 

He continued kissing me, hard and fast, nipping my neck and shoulder. 

“I’m going to teach you all kinds of things tonight, Louis.”

“Like what?” I asked, innocently batting my eyelashes.

He was enjoying my performance. He released my arms and sank his fingers into my hips, moving me forcefully on his lap. “You’ve always been my favorite student, you know that? You’re special. You’re my special boy…” 

I moaned, my eyes rolling back in my head as though I was possessed. His voice was hypnotizing. I was in a trance just like I was when I watched him dance or when he was guiding my barre exercises in the studio: _one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…_

I would have touched him but he was so excited I didn’t have to—in fact I think he preferred that I didn’t. He wanted me to be completely passive in his arms. This was what Harry liked too. The more excited he became the more the two of them blurred together. 

He rocked me on his lap like a ragdoll until he couldn’t take anymore and needed to have me. 

“Upstairs.”

“Yes, Mr. Beauchamp,” I breathed as he lifted me off of him.

Alex took me by the hand and led me like a child out of the drawing room. We passed the photo of young Harry on the bookcase. His green eyes followed us. I looked away, avoiding his haunting gaze.

Alex’s bedroom was the least ornate room in the entire home—just a four-poster bed, a vanity and a dresser. It had the same velvet blue drapes and ivory upholstery as the floor below but otherwise the walls and surfaces were bare. The only thing that stood out was an antique German parlor clock under a glass dome ticking loudly on his nightstand.

He closed the bedroom door and came toward me. He undid my belt and pants and hooked a finger along the waistband of my boxers and slipped those off too. I stepped out of them and glanced up at him shyly. I was no longer acting. I did feel shy.

“Get on the bed.”

Naked, I lay down on my back, anxiously waiting to be taken by my former teacher. 

“No, on your knees.”

Again, I did as I was told. 

Alex removed his clothes and circled around me before crawling up on the bed. His body was lean and wiry, his black chest hair now mixed with a smattering of grey. I felt the mattress dip under his weight. He got behind me, lifted my hips and pushed me onto my elbows. His touch was firm and instructive. 

“That’s it.” 

He assessed my body for a moment and delivered a threatening lick over my rim. I quivered. Then I felt his length against the back of my thigh. 

“Spread your knees a little wider for me, Louis.” 

“Yes, Sir.”

I spread myself open until I was exposed, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. 

I breathed softly into the mattress. This was happening. We were really about to do this. I pictured him onstage dancing when I was five, and the collage I had of him on my bedroom wall at school. I must have spent hundreds of hours gazing at those posters. And now he was here, we were here, together. It felt destined somehow, inevitable, like I was fulfilling some untold prophesy from my youth. 

I bowed my head in submission and waited for him to enter me. 

He leaned down and pressed his lips to my ear: “You’re so obedient. Such a good boy.”

My heart stopped. 

Those words. I’d heard those words before. 

Alex lined his hips up with mine.

My mind flashed to the first time Harry and I had sex, then to the grim, unsmiling photo of him downstairs. It was impossible. What I was thinking was impossible. 

Alex slipped a hand beneath me and stroked my belly. “Let me in, Louis.” 

Our conversation at dinner rang in my ears like a piercing alarm bell. He liked “younger men.” But Harry wasn’t a man back then. He was a boy. He was just a boy.

Alex was rubbing himself against me, preparing to enter. It felt like a snake hissing against my skin. 

I remembered Harry’s issues in the bedroom, how he wept when I wanted to enter him and how he wept after he took me in his mouth. 

My muscles clenched. 

Alex wrapped his hands around my throat. “Be a good boy and let me in, Louis, or I’ll have to force you.”

This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t a fantasy. Alex had done this for real. He had done it to Harry. 

“I guess you want to learn the hard way.” 

Alex didn’t just happen to enjoy the same things Harry did, Harry enjoyed those things because Alex taught him to. Harry was too young to know any better. 

His fingers tightened around my neck and he began to push himself inside me. I flinched so violently he flew back.

“No!” I boomed. 

Heart pounding, I jumped off the bed and put my clothes back on as quickly as I could. Alex lay there dumbfounded.

“What’s wrong? What’s gotten into you? I was just having a bit of fun.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Come back. I’ll be gentle, my pet.”

“I have to go.”

“Louis, don’t be silly.” He grinned. “Is this about Harry? I’ll make you forget all about him.” He reached out to me and my whole body recoiled. 

“Don’t touch me!”

I thought I was going to be sick. 

I ran out of the bedroom and down the narrow staircase brushing up against the priceless paintings, letting them swing on their hooks behind me. 

How could I have not seen it? Harry’s reservations in the bedroom. How timid he was in the studio with Alex. 

He was never the same after that trip to Paris. I mistook self-destruction for ambition. He had been slowly destroying himself ever since. Just like Hans. 

Hans. That’s why Harry was so affected by his death. That’s why neither Harry nor Alex talked about why he killed himself. It wasn’t because they thought the reason unimportant; it was because they already knew. 

I found Harry’s crumpled ribbon tie in the couch and snatched the photo of him out of the silver frame. I didn’t want Alex to have any part of him, not even one photo. 

I ran out the door, my shirt half-open, my tie undone around my collar. I had to go to Harry. 

He had been taking his painkillers every day for two weeks. 

He hadn’t been sleeping. 

The last time he saw me I was leaving the opera house with Alex. 

_What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis knows. Finally. Though, not everything.
> 
> I wanted this (almost) sex scene to be a pantomime of the abuse Harry and Hans suffered. I thought it would be a theatrical way for Louis to find out, which fits with the themes in the fic. 
> 
> Weirdly, when I was researching where Alex might live in London, the first real estate site that came up was called Beauchamp Estates… I’m not kidding. It was so creepy. 
> 
> I’m going up north tomorrow so I’ll only be able to post one update next week. Unless I get eaten by a bear, it should be up on Friday as usual.


	29. Chapter 29

I ran from Knightsbridge to Bankside. The impact of my wingtips hitting the concrete sent shocks of pain through my legs but I couldn’t stand around and wait for a taxi. I had to keep moving. 

I got to Harry’s flat just after midnight. A fog rolled in off the Thames. I couldn’t see a thing. I heard the sound of waves slapping against the embankment and the horn of a ferry in the distance. 

I squinted at the buzzer. Harry’s flat was still marked with a blank white rectangle. I pressed it frantically. No answer. I called and texted, though I knew it would be pointless and it was. Fuck. I banged on the door in hopes that a tenant on the first floor might hear me and open up. When that didn’t work I buzzed every single flat in the entire building until someone finally answered.

I heard a woman’s groggy voice and a crying baby in the background. _“Hello?”_

“Hello! I’m here to see Harry Styles in 10B.”

_“The dancer?”_

“Yes! That’s him.”

_“Who is this?”_

“It’s his friend, Louis Tomlinson.”

_“I can’t let a stranger into the building.”_

“I’m not a stranger!”

_“Then why hasn’t Mr. Styles let you in himself?”_

“I don’t know! Look, I think he might be in trouble. Please help me!” 

I heard a beep and then a click as the door unlocked.

A woman in her mid-thirties met me downstairs in a blue terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. “I wouldn’t have let you in,” she said, “but Mr. Styles wasn’t himself this evening… It’s probably nothing but he always greets me and my baby in the lobby and today when I said hello he just walked right by us like a ghost.”

I dashed past her and up the steps. She took the lift. 

I got to Harry’s door. It was locked. I banged on it and yelled, “Harry! Harry! It’s Louis! Open up!”

He wouldn’t open the door or answer me. I kept banging, my fist striking the heavy wood door harder and harder until my skin bruised. I kicked it. I would kick this fucking door down if I had to! 

The woman stepped out of the lift. “Stop. I’ll get the superintendent.” She could have called the cops on me at that point, but she trusted her own instincts and chose to help me instead. 

The superintendent took his sweet time. He was a burly young man with a cowlick and a faded Rush t-shirt. 

He held up his hands and sauntered over under the weight of his heavy utility belt. “I can’t open this door.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Building policy.”

I pounded my head against the door in exasperation. “Please, something’s really wrong!”

“Then call the police. I’m not authorized to barge into the flats of tenants.” 

“But the police are just going to ask you to open the door!”

“I’d rather go through the proper channels.”

“It might be too late by then!”

The woman snatched the keys off his belt and began trying each of them in the door. 

“Hey!” The super yelled. “You can’t do that, Helen!” 

“Sod off!” 

I covered her. She tried them one by one until I heard the deadbolt slide open. 

I burst into the flat. It was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. I ran up the floating staircase to his bedroom while Helen and the angry super argued below.

I could only make out his profile through the hazy, filtered street light. He was lying on his back completely still. I fell to his side and turned on the lamp. His skin was grey, coated in a sheen of sweat. He was so still I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or if it was a trick of the eye. I took his pulse. It was faint like the pattering of light rain under my fingertips. 

I shook him. “Harry! Harry! Wake up!”

I caught sight of the open bottle of pills on his nightstand. His sleeping pills. He had mixed his opioids with his sedatives. I picked up the bottle. It was half empty and I had no idea how many he had taken. He might have taken one or ten. 

I shook him again. “Harry, wake up! You have to wake up!”

He was totally unresponsive. 

“How many did you take?” I yelled, slapping his cheek. “How many?”

He stirred, eyes closed, his dark brows knit with worry. “I’m sorry, Sir, I just wanted to sleep. I’m so tired, Sir. Please let me sleep…” 

My heart twisted with horror. “No. It’s me. It’s Louis.”

Harry slipped away again into a deep, deadly sleep, locked inside himself, where he couldn’t hear or feel and would not wake no matter how much I yelled and shook him. 

“Call an ambulance!” I screamed to Helen and the super downstairs.

***

I had always been one of those odd people who liked hospitals. I was the eldest of seven siblings and I’d seen each of my sisters and brother born in hospital rooms just like the one they wheeled Harry into. Up until that point I had the luxury of never having to visit the hospital under tragic circumstances. I’d only witnessed life come into this world, not leave it.

Harry died that night. 

But only for thirty seconds. 

I glimpsed through the swinging emergency room doors and saw the EKG switch from a series of peaks and valleys to a solid green line. I never understood what loss was until I was inside those thirty seconds. I never understood what life was until I tried to imagine mine without Harry.

Afterward, the doctor warmly noted that had I not gotten to his flat when I did, Harry would have died in his sleep. This was little consolation to me. Harry wouldn’t have taken those pills in the first place if I had been there with him instead of choosing to leave the opera house with Alex.

It drove me nuts how mundane the experience of being in the hospital was when patients were literally on the brink of life and death. Hospital staff were kind and sympathetic, but I felt like I was the only one who understood the gravity of the situation. Harry almost died! My Harry! 

I badgered the doctor and asked a million questions about Harry’s treatment. They pumped his stomach and gave him 2 doses of oral activated charcoal. The doctor explained that charcoal interrupts the circulation of the absorbed drugs, neutralizing their effect. They also put him on intravenous fluids to wash his bloodstream. An anti-emetic was prescribed to relieve his nausea. Quietly, the doctor told me that a counselor would come by his room in the morning to assess his mental competence.

I didn’t know whether Harry did this to himself on purpose but I did know that he would never tell me or anyone else if he had. 

His hospital room was plain with a pilled white blanket and mint colored furniture and walls. It didn’t seem right for a rare beauty like Harry to be lying here in this utilitarian space that placed function over form. It didn’t seem right that he could die at all. His body should have been as transcendent as the dancing from which it sprung. 

I sat in a reclining chair by his bedside. Harry wouldn’t look at me. He issued orders like a drill sergeant. Under no circumstances was I to notify his family that he was in the hospital. He told me to tell Kenneth about his “accident,” and that he would be back at work in exactly one week, which was the doctor’s recommended recovery time.

I nodded and wrung my hands. He didn’t ask what happened between me and Alex that night or why I chose to come back to his flat. He waited for me to leave. I couldn’t leave him.

“Harry. I know.”

He looked at me for the first time since he woke up. “You know what?”

“I know what happened to you.”

His green gaze flitted around the room noncommittally. “I mixed my painkillers with my sleeping pills. I forgot I took my oxys this morning. It was an honest mistake.”

“No, I know what happened to you when you were younger.”

He tried to maintain a calm veneer, though his chest was heaving. “Nothing happened to me when I was younger. What are you talking about?”

“I know what Alex did to you.”

A dam broke inside Harry and pure, unfiltered rage poured forth. “Nobody did anything to me!” He ripped the IV from his arm and jumped out of the bed in just his hospital gown. 

He hobbled out of the room and down the corridor as though he still might be able outrun his past. I chased after him along with two orderlies. They cornered and caught him. Harry thrashed in their arms like a wild animal. 

Nurses, patients and doctors all looked on in shock as he swore and screamed and nearly tore his own arms off to get free. Nothing would subdue him. 

I kept telling him that I knew the truth, but this only made him angrier and angrier, until I pulled out the old photo of him from my breast pocket.

I held it out in front of him.

Harry stopped struggling. He became very quiet suddenly and let his body go limp. The orderlies loosened their grip on him. 

He took the photo from my hands and stared at it sadly like it was a photo of someone else, a long lost twin. 

We led him back to his room, his skin blotchy and hot from his violent outburst. 

I insisted he would be fine and the orderlies left us, closing the door behind them. 

“Did he give this to you?” Harry asked. 

“I stole it.”

Harry couldn’t quite look me in the eye. He didn’t trust me. Maybe he didn’t believe me. 

“You were at his house.”

I nodded.

“Did you and he…”

“No, Harry. We didn’t. Thank God. But… Christ, why didn’t you tell me?” 

He looked hard at the photo of that helpless young boy. His expression was filled with pity. “Who would have believed me over him? I was a nobody.” 

I grabbed his hand. “You were somebody to me,” I said fiercely. 

Harry’s eyes were wide and glassy. I could see that he was ready. He was finally ready to tell. Not for me or for himself, but for that boy in the photo. 

“He hurt me, Louis,” he said in a shaky voice. “He hurt me really bad.”

I leapt onto the bed and threw my arms around him, crushing my body against his. I held his shoulders as tight as I could, afraid he might come undone if I let go. 

“It’s going to be okay,” I said clasping the back of his neck and pressing his face against my chest. “Everything is going to be okay now.”

As I was holding him, I realized I had no idea if this was true. Nothing felt okay in that moment. The tighter I held him, the more violently Harry shook. I thought I understood what had happened to him, but I was nowhere near understanding the depth of it. He was shaking so bad it looked like he was going into shock. He pointed at my shirt. 

“Your clothes. You smell like him.”

If Alex’s scent was enough to trigger his past trauma, what must it have been like for him every day in the studio? How much had he been suffering right under my nose while I did nothing but fawn over Alex and worship the ground he walked on? 

I backed away from him, wracked with guilt for all the things I did and didn’t do. For what I almost did… I was contaminated. Dirty. 

Ashamed, I stuffed my hands into my pockets. My fingertips brushed up against the balled up ribbon. I pulled it out. It was creased and crumpled. Its gold luster had faded into a dull yellow. I let it fall from my hands onto his nightstand. 

“I ruined your ribbon. I’m so sorry.” I held my face in my hands and began to cry. 

“Don’t cry,” he said softly, caring for me even though I didn’t deserve it. “I know you didn’t mean to.” 

I went home, took off my suit and scrubbed my skin raw in the shower. I changed into some sweats and headed back to the hospital to sit with Harry. 

He was still awake when I got back. I was hoping he would get some sleep once I was beside him. I hoped he still felt safe enough with me to sleep. 

I wasn’t technically allowed to stay overnight with him in his room. Visiting hours were over and I wasn’t family. But word had spread that two very demanding “male ballerinas” were in the ward causing “drama” and they let me stay lest we cause another scene.

I got into the hospital bed with Harry. He rolled onto his stomach and let me stroke his back. He fell into a natural, healthy sleep but I stayed wide-awake and watched over him just to be on the safe side. 

I had all night to think about the past and the signs that I had missed. I never suspected something like that had happened to Harry in Paris because I never would have thought Alex capable of it. I didn’t love Alex but I loved the idea of him. I was so enraptured by his personae that I couldn’t see the person underneath. Gigi could see it. Harry had experienced it firsthand. Now that I knew, so many things were clicking into place. 

There was one thing that was nagging me, though, one piece to the puzzle that didn’t quite fit…

When Harry woke up, he wasn’t hungry. He sent the food tray back and just drank the coffee, despite my hysterical protests that he eat and regain his strength. 

The counselor came by the room and just as I expected Harry told him nothing. He said he mixed his pills by mistake and that it would never happen again. 

I could tell that he was itching to go to work but I forbade it. 

“We’re so close to dress rehearsal!” he exclaimed. “I’ll have to see him eventually, Louis. There’s no way around it.”

I cradled his head. “No. I won’t let him be in the same room as you ever again. He won’t set eyes on you as long as I live.”

“That’s impossible. He’s our choreographer.”

“And he wants to be resident choreographer,” I seethed, cracking my knuckles. 

Harry was silent, then he said, “Alex always gets what he wants one way or another.” 

“It’s not going to happen,” I said firmly. “I don’t know how I’ll stop him but I will.”

Harry wasn’t raring to take Alex down like I was. He was resigned. He spoke about Alex as though his continued presence was as inevitable as the moon rising. It frustrated me. Why wasn’t he more angry? 

I stood up and paced around the room. 

“Can I ask you a question, Harry?”

“Always.”

“After everything that happened to you in Paris, why did you go with Alex to Kiev? Did he threaten you?”

“No, I begged him to take me, just like he said.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you want to go with him?”

It didn’t make any sense. If Alex hurt Harry, and I fully believed that he had, why would Harry ever want to go on that second trip?

“I didn’t want to,” he said quietly, his dark tangled hair shielding his eyes. 

I still didn’t understand. 

The truth was staring me right in the face but I couldn’t recognize it. Goodness like that didn’t exist in this world. That kind of selflessness was the stuff of myth and fairytale. It wasn’t real and even if it was, no one would ever do that for me. 

“He was going to hurt you,” Harry said. 

“No.”

“I had to protect you.”

“No.”

It was my turn to kick and scream and say it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. If it was, that meant that everything I had believed about our past and my role in it was wrong. 

Harry had sacrificed himself for me. 

He gave up our friendship to keep me safe. 

He was completely alone with his suffering and I treated him monstrously. 

I was so overcome, I fell to my knees. 

“Why would you do that for me?”

“I love you,” he said simply.

My head fell onto the bed next to his hand. I kissed it, not worthy of him or his love. 

“You should have told me the truth.”

He stroked my hair. “What if you didn’t believe me? I couldn’t risk it. I wanted you to have a normal life.” 

“But he hurt you!” I sobbed. “What about your life?” I wished Alex had taken me instead. Harry was such a sensitive boy. It was unthinkable that he went through this not once but twice. 

“I was already ruined,” he said. “It didn’t matter what they did to me.” 

Slowly, I lifted my head off the bed. “What do you mean ‘they’?” 

Harry had given me no details about what went on between him and Alex. All I had were the shapes and shadows of his past. That alone was more terrifying than anything I had ever experienced. 

Harry hung his head with shame. “He shared me with his friends.”

The temperature in the room spiked. Blood was roaring in my ears like a crashing sea. 

It was worse than I ever could have imagined. 

Remembering Harry at fifteen, how trusting he was, I thought: What kind of person would take advantage of that innocence? How could grown men tear apart a child who was so gentle? 

All of my guilt and grief turned to fury. 

I stood up and headed for the door. 

“Where are you going?” Harry cried.

“To see Beauchamp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope I didn’t scare you with Harry’s brief death!
> 
> We're in the homestretch. In these next few chapters I'll be barreling toward a resolution.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an exciting announcement! I've been posting this fic over on Wattpad and this week it became a Featured title! (That's when Wattpad picks your story for their Featured list to promote on the site). If you have an account I'd be grateful if you could vote on my chapters https://www.wattpad.com/story/64505391-flightless-bird-larry-au-boyxboy-wattys2016 I also include a little collage for each chapter.

Beauchamp was temporarily stationed in Liam’s old office. He had his feet up on the desk and was reading the newspaper. His black umbrella stood against the empty bookshelf like a sleeping bat. 

On my way to the opera house I replayed in my mind how this conversation might go but now I wasn’t sure I could control myself. Seeing him reclining comfortably in the leather chair after what he did to Harry sent me into a blind rage. Why does he get to be comfortable while Harry lies in a hospital bed and Hans lies in the ground?

He peered at me over the paper and uncrossed his ankles. “Have you come to apologize?”

I slammed the office door behind me. “No.”

Beauchamp cocked his silver head and stood up. He waltzed around the desk sleekly and perched on the edge. 

“Where did you run off to last night?”

“I was with Harry.”

He grinned. “So, Siegfried and Von Rothbart made up.” 

I held the back of the wooden chair in front of me. “You need to leave the company.”

“What?”

“Harry and I will no longer work with you.” 

He crossed his arms disapprovingly like he did when he was still my teacher. “Is this Harry’s idea? Is he turning you against me with his lies like he did all your other friends? Really, Louis, I thought you were smarter than this.” 

The chair nearly splintered I was gripping it so hard. “I believe Harry.”

“You think Harry’s been honest with you?” Beauchamp shook his head. “He doesn’t know this, but a few months ago I took a trip to Moscow and spoke to his former colleagues. What they told me was interesting. Very interesting. Do you know the real reason Harry left the Bolshoi?” 

I wasn’t going to let him get in my head. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say. Leave now or I will tell Kenneth and every dancer here what you are.”

His brow fell and his look of concern morphed into an ugly sneer. This was the real Beauchamp. The man I knew in the studio was just an illusion no different than his Palemon or the other roles he danced onstage. 

“I don’t like your tone, my pet. You’re being very disrespectful.”

“Who do you think you’re dealing with? I’m not a little boy.”

“You could have fooled me.” He winked.

I ground my teeth. “Last night was huge mistake.”

“Your mistake was leaving me for him. You and I are good together. Harry is a mess. He can barely take care of himself.”

I slammed the chair on the ground. “And whose fault is that?” 

He put a hand on his chest, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re implying.” 

I was done being civil. I came at him. “He was fifteen years old. Fifteen!”

Beauchamp looked me up and down pityingly. “Is that what this is all about? You’re jealous that I’ve fucked him and you haven’t?”

I staggered backwards. 

I thought he would get angry. Deny it. I’d completely underestimated him. He wasn’t ashamed about what he’d done and he had no fear about being found out. It wasn’t a crime of passion. It was cold-blooded. Calculating. His position, his money and his network made him untouchable and he knew it. He relished it. 

“I could give you a few pointers if you want,” he chuckled. “I’m actually surprised he hasn’t let you have him. He was quite the little slut back in the day.”

“Enough.” 

“If you only knew the things he’s done and how many men have had him…”

“He was a child!” I cracked my fist on the desk. 

Beauchamp sighed like we were merely debating the wine list. “Don’t be so pedestrian. You know my taste is rarefied.” His dark eyes examined mine with reptilian blankness. “Harry’s flesh was peaches and cream, his screams the sweetest melody.”

I grabbed him by the throat and slammed the back of his head against the bookcase. Terror flashed in his eyes. 

“What?” I said calmly. “I thought you liked it rough.” 

His nostrils flared. He tried to pull my arm away but the more he struggled, the tighter my hand constricted around his throat. 

“You’re right, Sir, we’re the perfect couple.”

His lip curled. “You’re too old for me.”

I pictured his hands on Harry’s young body. It made me want to squeeze his throat tighter and tighter until the life drained out of him like poison from a rattlesnake. 

“I’m not leaving the company,” he croaked.

“I don’t want you to.”

He laughed. “What are you going to do then? Beat me up? Kill me?”

“No. I’m going to ruin you.”

***

I found Gigi in her dressing room jamming bobby pins into her blonde bun. The place was as tidy and prim as she was, with rows of lipsticks lined up like soldiers on her vanity.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“I need a favor.” 

“Of course you do.”

I sat across the room on her loveseat. She was superstitious and refused to throw away any bouquets she received, so there were dried flowers everywhere. The place smelled like a funeral parlor and perfume.

“I need the numbers of your friends in Paris.”

“My ‘cokehead friends’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“The ones with dirt on Beauchamp.” 

She crossed her long spindly legs and narrowed her eyes. “What are you up to, Tomlinson? Where’s Harry and why aren’t you in the studio with Alex?”

“We’re not working with him anymore.”

“Question: why don’t you and Harry just burn the opera house to the ground if you’re so hell bent on destroying this production?” 

“I don’t want to destroy the production. I want to destroy Beauchamp.”

She picked up her pearl phonecase. “You’re lucky I hate him.”

***

I helped Harry checkout of the hospital. He was taken there in nothing but his boxers, so I brought him a pair of ripped skinnies, a t-shirt and Nikes to wear home. He asked to come back to my flat because it was close by. I think he was afraid to be alone. Not that I would have left him. I wanted to spend every minute of every day watching over him. Beauchamp tried to make Harry into something ugly by telling me about all the men that had him. Instead, the reverse happened. His suffering made him more beautiful to me, his pain holy.

He sat on my couch not quite sure what to do with himself. He didn’t have a couch at home. He just danced and slept. He didn’t know how to spend time with himself and just relax. 

His face was gaunt. He refused to eat a bite of the bland food they served at the hospital so I made him some tea and dug up the sweetest biscuits I could find. 

I tried to get him settled before I brought up my meeting with Beauchamp, but he wanted to know the details straight away. 

“Is he leaving?” Harry asked hopefully.

I placed the mismatched teacup and saucer in front of him along with the plate of frosted vanilla cookies. 

“Change of plans, kitten. We’re going to ruin his life instead.”

“How?”

“You have to press charges.”

Harry shook his head vigorously. “I can’t do that.”

I sat beside him on the couch. “You have to, otherwise he’ll keep doing this.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t you think I want to? I’ve thought about this for years. I have no proof, no physical evidence and no witnesses. I got tested for STDs after it happened but never had a full examination. The only people who could corroborate my story are his driver who saw him kiss me in the backseat and Beauchamp’s wife Irina, both of whom have covered for him for decades. They couldn’t testify against him without implicating themselves. All I have is my own testimony.” 

“The police will investigate!”

“Which police? He abused me in three different countries seven years ago.” His voice cracked. “Even if I could remember what happened where, these countries are all subject to different laws. He’s smart. He moves his boys around like chess pieces.”

“We’ll do it here, in the UK,” I said decidedly.

“It’s my word against his. I have no case.” 

“What if we found other victims to corroborate your story?”

“Hans is dead.” 

I pulled out my phone. “Gigi’s friends in Paris heard rumors. I followed up with them, did a little digging, and got a few names.”

He took a sip of hot tea, cautiously optimistic. “Beauchamp’s boys are obedient. They’d rather hurt themselves than hurt him. Just look at Hans, look at…” He stopped short of mentioning himself. 

Once I began searching those names and made some calls I understood what Harry meant. Almost none of the men were willing to talk to me, and the ones that did, angrily protested that nothing had ever happened between them and Beauchamp. One ex-dancer was so furious at the suggestion he said that if this ever went to court he would testify on Beauchamp’s behalf. 

It was getting late. I sat at my little desk in my room, while Harry lay in bed reading. My eyes were getting heavy. I felt swallowed up by hopelessness. There had to be something I could do, some way to bring Harry justice. I vowed to keep trying no matter how many months or years it took. Harry sacrificed for me. I would fight for him.

“Louis, you’re tired. Come to bed.” He was lying there peacefully, his dark hair spayed out on the pillow, one leg tucked beneath the other. 

“I’m thinking.”

He came over and wrapped his naked arms around me. “Please, let it go.”

I kissed his hand. “No.”

“You let him get inside your head.”

I pulled his warm body onto my lap and placed my cheek against his heart, feeling its familiar rhythm. 

“What did he say about me?” Harry asked quietly.

I chose my words carefully. I couldn’t tell him all of the vile things Beauchamp said without re-traumatizing him. 

“He tried to turn me against you. He said you’ve been lying about why you left the Bolshoi. Can you believe that?”

I thought Harry would be as incredulous as I was but he escaped my arms and crawled back into bed. 

“Harry?” 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Louis.” 

Immediately, I got up from the desk and sat beside him smoothing the mussed bedspread with my palm. I didn’t think there were any more secrets between us. What else could he be hiding from me? 

He rested his hands on my shoulders. I held my breath preparing for the worst.

“This performance of Swan Lake will be my last.”

I blinked. “What are you saying?”

“My knee.”

“It’s an injury. You’ll get better.”

“No I won’t. I had three surgeries in Moscow. The last one didn’t take.”

I grasped at his legs frantically. 

“You’re too young! Your career has only just begun! Can’t you get a second opinion from a doctor here or in America? There are specialists--”

“This is the end.” 

He’d already suffered so much. He couldn’t suffer the loss of his career too. I pressed my lips to the scar on his knee as though the sheer force of my love could heal him.

“So, Beauchamp was telling the truth? The Russians asked you to leave?”

“No. I have one more performance in me.” He took my hand. “That’s why I came back. I wanted to dance beside you one last time.”

“Oh, Harry.” 

I held him and we mourned his loss together. Only another dancer could understand what was being taken from him. He reminded me of those dried flowers in Gigi’s dressing room: he was still Harry, still beautiful, but an essential part of him had died. 

“Does anyone else know?”

“Only Liam. Kenneth never would have offered me the contract if he knew. Liam understands what it’s like to have a career end because of an injury. He wanted to give me the chance he never had.”

No wonder Harry needed everything to be perfect, why he was so controlling and obsessed with every last detail of the production. He would never dance the ballet that meant so much to him ever again. 

I was grieving not just for him but for myself and the whole world. We were losing such a talent. He could have danced another twenty years. What a tragically brief career. It was a short flash of brilliance, but he shone brighter than any other star. 

I tightened my grip on him and stilled my tears. “It will be the greatest honor of my life to dance beside you.”

“Let’s make history,” he said bravely. 

I crushed my forehead against his and laced my fingers through his hair. 

It wasn’t long before I felt that familiar rage well up inside me. All of his suffering stemmed from the same source. This was a symptom but Beauchamp was the disease. He stole Harry’s innocence and because of that, robbed him of his career, his art. Harry’s loss only strengthened my resolve.

I untangled my hands from his hair and went back to my desk.

Harry reached out to me. “It’s over, Louis. These men will never talk. We’ll never find anyone willing to corroborate my story.”

I flipped to the back of an old programme on my desk. My eyes widened. “There might be another way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm what might they find in a ballet programme that could help them? 
> 
> I really wanted there to be a death in this story that mirrors the tragic arc in Swan Lake but I didn’t want Harry to die. I thought the death of his career was just as sad but in a totally different way. 
> 
> In an earlier draft I had Beauchamp deny the abuse, but it didn’t seem to match his character. He’s so arrogant and entitled about everything else I couldn’t see him protesting his innocence.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a ballet programme on hand you probably know where I’m going with this.
> 
> This chapter re-introduces a character from Chapter 3.

Harry looked up at me from the bed, cross-legged, chin resting on his hand. 

I held up the programme triumphantly. It was so obvious. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

“I know someone who can help us!”

“Nobody in the company will help me, Louis. They all hate me right now—dancers the administration, everyone. I burned all my bridges at the Bolshoi too. The whole industry has it in for me.”

“Harry, what’s the most important part of the ballet?”

“Me.”

“No, baby.”

He scowled. 

“The audience.” Or more specifically, the patrons. 

Harry made enemies of everyone he worked with, but outside the company London’s elite adored him. He had a terrible reputation throughout the industry yet he was celebrated by virtually everyone else. 

I flipped to the back of the programme and showed him the list of patrons. “Our generous benefactors.” 

“I don’t need money,” he said. 

I pointed to the name Margaret Wexley. “She’s not just rich. She’s the heiress to a media empire. She owns newspapers and magazines all over the world. I was her date at the patron’s dinner. She’s the most powerful woman in Britain besides the Queen.”

“You think she’d publish a piece on Beauchamp in one of her newspapers?”

“I think she could make him the most hated man on the planet if she wanted to.”

Mags had countless investigative journalists at her disposal and those journalists did almost the exact same job as criminal investigators, only without the same limitations. They weren’t bound by jurisdiction and they didn’t have to meet the burden of proof required by the courts. 

If we couldn’t try the case in a court of law, we would try it in the court of public opinion.

The next morning we ventured off to the Wexley estate. I rented a car. If we were going there under better circumstances, driving through the lush green hills of the English countryside might have been romantic. Harry was nervous. He bounced his knee and clutched his seatbelt the whole ride there. I assured him that if this piece were published they wouldn’t have to use his name. He was a victim. His identity would be protected. 

We drove up the long gravely path to the main house, if you could call it a house. I felt like we just rolled up to the set of Downton Abbey. It was a square classical mansion built in the Jacobethan style with Italianate towers and Gothic arches. 

The valet, a sleek gentleman in solid black, was waiting to take our car. He didn’t speak. Then the estate’s butler, an older man, approached and told us that Ms. Wexley was waiting for us in the greenhouse. The property was so vast he had to drive us there in a golf cart. 

I was glad I dressed up a little. I was wearing tan slacks and a navy blazer. Harry wore one of his billowy blouses with his hair down. Even though he was raised in a lower middle class family, he appeared oddly at home in a place like this. He must have been a Duke in a past life. 

Mags emerged from the greenhouse in a wide-brimmed hat and soiled gardening gloves. We hopped off the golf cart and she waved us over. I smiled. She was as spritely out here as she was on the dance floor. 

“Why, I haven’t seen such strapping young men on this property since the war!”

She was still a flirt. 

She shook my hand and hugged Harry, then hurriedly led us into the greenhouse to show us her prize-winning orchids. The temperature rose dramatically once we were inside. The air was thick with humidity, the plants and flowers luxuriating in the tropical climate. 

Harry wandered off to look at the dahlias. We had agreed that I would talk to Mags. I got her number from the interim assistant and called ahead. I told her we needed a favor. She knew from the tenor of my voice that it was serious but nothing more. Mags had been donating to The Royal Ballet for decades and she was pleased to hear from me. It was odd the relationship between performer and patron. Our lives were so different, our experiences worlds apart, and yet one could not exist without the other. There was an unspoken bond between us. She loved to watch us dance and we loved to dance for her. 

I told her everything minus the details of the abuse because I didn’t know them. She sprayed the long slender sepals of her bulbophyllum medusa as she listened, gripping the spray bottle tighter and tighter. 

She didn’t say a word after I told her, but continued to prune and spritz. 

“We’re telling the truth,” I said. 

She took off her gardening gloves. “Louis, I’ve been alive a long time. I’ve met many men like Alexander. His breed is not rare unfortunately. I believe you.”

I exhaled with relief.

“What do you want to happen to him?”

“I want to expose him.”

“Truthfully.”

My hands curled into fists. “I want him to suffer.”

Mags nodded conspiratorially. She was clearly no stranger to this type of request. She had made men like Beauchamp suffer before. The deep lines of her face, frozen in perpetual optimism, told me she could win this fight.

“The story needs to be vetted. I’ll put my best team on it and give them as a large a research budget as they require. If there’s something to find, rest assured those bloodhounds will find it, and when they do everyone from here to Tokyo will know what he is.”

I was so grateful I could have cried. 

“Thank you!” I held her frail shoulders in my hands. “Thank you.” 

Her milky gaze fell on Harry who was skimming the velvety flower petals with his fingers.

“What is he to you?” she asked. 

It was a simple question but it stumped me. Harry was many things to me. He was my colleague, my rival, my best friend, my boyfriend, my lover. All of those titles were accurate but none of them felt right.

“He’s everything to me,” I answered. 

She patted my back knowingly. I had to be so strong for Harry the past few days I hadn’t really stopped to process the tremendous amount of guilt I was feeling.

“I wish it had happened to me and not him.”

“Don’t say that,” she scolded, snapping her gloves at my chest. 

“It’s true!” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “You don’t know what Harry was like back then. He wasn’t like other boys. He was pure, so innocent that I was afraid to give him a single kiss! He was fragile and needed to be treated with care and Beauchamp smashed him into a million pieces.”

Mags pruned the dying leaves of her dendrobium chrystianum. “You’re wrong about him. He’s not fragile. He’s strong. He’s alive when Hans is dead. He spoke the truth when the other victims chose to stay silent. He protected you when you couldn’t protect yourself. You can’t change the past, Louis, but you can honor his courage.”

We heard a squeak from Harry on the other side of the greenhouse. My head whipped around. 

He was covered in butterflies. They were on his hair, his cheek, his shoulders, his blouse, his hands, their colorful wings batting contentedly in his presence.

Mags shuffled around him in awe. “Remarkable. They must think you’re a flower, Mr. Styles.”

He looked at me helplessly. I smiled. 

Together Mags and I lifted the butterflies off of him, careful not to crush their wings. We walked Harry out of the greenhouse and they fluttered wildly in a colorful cloud, like they could sense their sweetest rose was abandoning them. 

Mags told us someone from the investigative team would be in touch to ask Harry some questions. She reassured him that his name wouldn’t be included in the piece if it went to print. 

We walked the long stretch of land back to the car. One of the wait staff brought us lemonades and Mags showed us around the property. I was worried it would be too much for her but she was in great shape for a woman in her eighties. It was Harry and I who were out of breath by the end. 

The valet was waiting with our car. We said our goodbyes to Mags and thanked her profusely for her help. 

As we were getting into the car, Harry stopped. He jumped out and ran back up to Mags.

“Tell them they can use my name.”

I slowly approached. “Harry, are you sure?”

He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “Run the story with this photo.”

It was the photo of him from Beauchamp’s house. 

Mags’ gaze was steely. “I understand.” 

I was beginning to understand too. This wasn’t my fight and it wasn’t Mags’ fight either. As much as I wanted to be the one to slay his dragons, this was Harry’s battle. All I could do was stand by him. I was terrified for him but proud of him too. Mags was right. Harry was strong.

The sun was setting on the ride back. The green hills were dotted with sheep and bales of hay. 

Harry was taking in the scenery. His nerves were gone. He didn’t seem happy but rather at peace. He flipped down the visor to keep the sun out of his eyes. 

He turned to me, brows knit. “You know, Louis, you never told me what happened on your date with Beauchamp.”

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. 

Harry searched my face. “Let me guess, he took you to the best restaurant in London, he called you his pet and said you were his favorite and that he wanted to spoil you.”

“He spent 1,300 quid on a bottle of wine.”

“I fucking hate that guy.”

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. That was the most normal thing I had ever heard Harry say about Beauchamp. 

“I wish it hadn’t gone as far as it did. I was just so lonely and he was so—”

Harry winced and put up his hand. “I know what he’s like.” 

I was silent. Harry still hadn’t told me what exactly had happened to him. I didn’t want to know but at the same time I felt like I had to. 

“What happened to you in Kiev?” 

Harry told me everything and nothing in a single sentence. “They laughed at me.” 

At night, the countryside was shrouded in darkness. Except the sky. The stars shone much brighter in the country than they did in the city. 

I parked on a hill so we could listen to music and watch the stars. Harry was tired but I was so keen on the idea he indulged me. I crawled in the backseat and he followed. We’d brought a blanket along and I wrapped it around his shoulders.

If things had been different I would have taken him to a place just like this when we were teenagers. We would have snogged like crazy and talked for hours. Maybe we would have lost our virginity to each other. None of that happened. Our history was stolen from us.

Harry lay back like he was waiting for something. I tucked the blanket around him tighter in case there was a draft. 

“Louis,” he said. “You’ve barely touched me since you found out.” 

“You haven’t been well,” I said, making sure he was bundled up.

“If you’re not attracted to me now that you know, I’ll understand.”

“What! No! I’ve never been more attracted to anyone, ever.” I sat back. “That’s the problem. Harry, I’m so ashamed about how I’ve acted. I was so pushy in bed, begging you to do things you didn’t want to do. If I had any inkling of what you’ve been through I never would have asked that of you.” 

Harry kissed me in that slow mysterious way of his that made me desperate to know what he was thinking.

He opened his eyes and they met mine. “I want to.” 

“You don’t have to do that. I love things the way they are.” 

Harry freed his hands and fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “Louis, I’ve never given myself to someone. I’ve only been… Taken. I want to know what it’s like. Maybe it will be different,” he said, full of hope.

I smiled like I agreed but inside I was so sad for him.

“It’s just…” he began, “I don’t know how to like it. You like it. Why?”

I blushed. “Well, it makes me feel like I belong to you.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Yes!” 

He peered outside at the moon, which was just a sliver. “Beauchamp was my first and my last. I didn’t feel like I belonged to him. I felt like I wanted to die.” He was getting frustrated with himself. “This was a stupid idea. I’ll never learn how to like it. I’m too fucked up.”

I held his hand. “What about before Beauchamp?”

“I was a virgin.”

“What did you want to have happen? What was your fantasy?”

“You were my fantasy.”

“Really?”

“Obviously! You were my crush and my first kiss. Who else would it be?”

“Okay, okay.” I grinned. “What else?”

“This is embarrassing.”

“Come on.”

“I was only fifteen, so bear with me.” He took a deep breath, starlight illuminating his delicate features as he spoke. “We’re in our dorm room. I’m practicing my barre exercises on the windowsill and you’re teaching me. Your hands are soft and you say nice things about my dancing. Then all of a sudden you kiss me! I kiss you back. You lead me over to the bed and undress me…” Harry looked away shyly. “Then you tell me I’m beautiful. You call me Lysander. You say you care about me and that you want to be with me. You touch me. You’re gentle.”

Harry’s fantasy was so moving in its simplicity. He didn’t ask for much. All he ever wanted was for someone to show him kindness. 

“I can do all of those things!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said sadly. “Beauchamp was my first. Nothing can change that.” 

“But he doesn’t have to be your last. I love you, Lysander! You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. I want to be with you always.”

His green eyes flashed with a yearning so deep I could have drowned in them. “I want to belong to you.” 

My heart was pounding. “When?”

“Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Harry is rising! 
> 
> Sorry to leave you hanging, but we’ll get to all that in due time…
> 
> Hope you liked meeting Mags again :)


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been traveling this week and it threw off my whole writing schedule. I wanted to re-read this a few more times before posting.

Weeks passed. We inched closer and closer to opening night, and the gala that preceded it, until we were mere days away. 

We hadn’t heard back from the investigative reporters. 

I was working miracles to keep Harry and Beauchamp apart in the studio. I made sure he was only scheduled to rehearse with the master tutor, Joni. Kenneth would have had my head if he weren’t so stressed over administrative details. Things had completely fallen apart without Liam’s steady hand to guide the company.

Beauchamp had his hands full with Gigi, who he criticized and mocked relentlessly. While critiquing her solo in Act Two, he told her she was too fat to execute the grand adage properly. Gigi wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. She fought back. Their screaming matches reverberated throughout the whole opera house and were sure to become legendary. 

Two days before the gala, Harry received an email from one of the reporters that said she had witness testimony that corroborated his story about Kiev. He wondered who the witness was and what they said. We found out the witness was Harry! Fifteen-year-old Harry. And what he said was simply his own name. The reporters went to Kiev to interview the staff at Beauchamp’s old apartment and the curmudgeonly landlord said that the furniture that came with the unit had been vandalized during Beauchamp’s stay. Someone had carved their name into an antique desk. It was Harry’s name. RBS had paid for a separate apartment for Harry in Kiev, as was the school’s policy. This desk placed Harry exactly where he said he was and where he shouldn’t have been. In Beauchamp’s quarters. This act of impropriety may not have been enough to indict Beauchamp in court but it was enough for the paper to vet the story and avoid a defamation lawsuit. 

Boris and Vladimir had signed their own warrants. Each had been embroiled in sex scandals with minors before and after the incident with Harry. The Kiev ballet swept these indiscretions under the rug. But Harry’s name was too big, the story too scandalous to be ignored. Their names in connection with the piece would ruin them.

Mags had to get creative with the Zhuk cousins. There was nothing tying them to the incident with Harry. One of her Ukrainian subsidiaries had been investigating them for insider trading and fixing the market with a competitor in Russia. What would have been a footnote buried in the business sections of UK and American papers was now headline news. Harry and I watched gleefully as stocks for their mining company plummeted. 

Harry’s story would be on the front page of the arts section in Mags’ newspapers all over the world. The reporters told him that they would be running the story soon but they didn’t say when.

If Harry was nervous he didn’t show it. I was nervous for him. I cried when he gave his interview to the reporters. 

Harry didn’t have any more tears left for Beauchamp.

I couldn’t believe someone so private would go public with such a personal story, but my discovery about Harry’s past had a snowball effect. Once I found out and believed him, he had the courage to go to Mags, then to the reporters, now the world. 

On the day of the gala we woke up early in Harry’s bed. It took me a moment to remember where I was before I felt the satin bedspread and saw Harry beside me on a mountain of pillows. 

We had been living between our two flats, which was as wonderful as it was inconvenient. We could never find any of our stuff because we’d forget which things we brought where. I was convinced I’d forgotten something for the gala but I couldn’t figure out what. 

I had my suit dry-cleaned and my shirt pressed. Harry bought me a new tie that cost more than my first car. It was silk and sky blue. He said it matched my eyes. Harry wore a velvet paisley suit in black and gold that made him look like a matador. 

I raised my eyebrows. 

“Too much?” he said.

“Not for you.” I smoothed my hands over his lapels. 

Unlike Jeffrey, Harry did not want us to dress alike. I’m sure if he saw someone wearing the same thing as him at an event, he would throw a fit and immediately run home to change. He adored couture and fussed over every outfit, which wasn’t the case at all when he was younger and wore the same tattered hoodie every day. I was charmed by this new side of him. It was one of the few nice things he did for himself, so I encouraged it. 

Besides, I didn’t need to dress like Harry to feel connected to him. We weren’t the same person and we didn’t want to be. We were two distinct entities, a planet and its moon, drawn together by a gravitational force out of our control, spinning around each other in perfect synchronicity. 

I couldn’t find my cufflinks. I must have left them back at my place. 

“Here,” Harry said, “borrow a pair of mine.” He went into his walk-in closet and found a pair in his dresser. They were two gold swans. Fitting, I thought.

He took my wrists and fastened them to my cuffs, his fingers lingering over the fabric. 

“Louis, I know it’s way too soon, and we’ve only been together a few weeks but…” he batted his dark lashes. “I would really like you to move in with me.”

I was surprised but happier than I ever knew I could be. “Harry! When we were in school I asked you to move in with me after a few hours!”

He shifted in his shoes. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes, I’d love to live with you again.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief, as though he’d been trying to build up the courage to ask me for a while. “Okay, good.”

“But,” I glanced downstairs, “we need to get some furniture for this place.”

“Can’t we just use yours?”

“My furniture is crap.”

He ruffled my neatly coiffed hair. “I like your crap furniture.” 

It was warm out and the sun hadn’t yet set, so we decided to walk to the opera house. I got excited thinking about how we could walk to work like this every day now that we lived together. Then I remembered that after Friday night’s performance, Harry would have no need to go to the opera house every day because he would no longer be a dancer. 

I squeezed his hand a little tighter. 

When we rounded the corner of Exeter Street, our phones suddenly blew up. We began getting texts and calls from family, friends and colleagues. The story had dropped. 

We stopped at a newsstand on the corner of Tavistock and Bow. I paid the three quid for the evening paper but I couldn’t bear to look at the article. 

Harry opened up the paper. His face remained impassive. His hands trembled. 

God, this was the absolute worst moment for the story to come out. We were about to enter a room full of our peers. I had no idea what the reaction would be. I was beginning to understand Harry’s fear of telling. 

“We don’t have to do this. Let’s go home.”

“No,” he said, tucking the paper into his breast pocket. “I want to face them. I’m not ashamed.”

In mere minutes, news of the article had spread like wildfire. All eyes were on us as we entered the bold red interior of the Crush Room. Everyone went quiet. The only sound was the faint clinking of wine glasses and cocktail forks. 

I stroked Harry’s arm soothingly. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

He held his head up. “You believe me, Louis. That’s all that matters.”

Then slowly our friends and colleagues approached. 

Gigi was first, the spaghetti straps of her evening gown falling off her shoulders as she barreled toward us. “Motherfucker. I knew he was evil but I didn’t know he was that evil.” She wrestled Harry into a hug.

Eleanor was tearful, her mascara running down her bronze cheeks. “I drove you to the clinic when you got back from Paris. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t say anything. Can you forgive me?”

Harry patted her shoulder. “It’s not you fault.”

Zayn’s dark eyes were mournful. He touched Harry’s face. “I was so hard on you in school. I told Louis you couldn’t be trusted. I thought you hurt him but you were protecting him. You’re a better friend than I ever was.”

“You were a good friend too!” Harry insisted. “I’m glad Louis has you.”

Niall had the emotional range of a golden retriever but even he felt compelled to speak. “That interview took guts, Harry.” He cleared his throat. “I’m proud to know you and work with you, even if we do have our disagreements.” 

Harry shook his hand. “I hope we can put all that behind us now.” 

Then one by one everyone in the company, even Jeffrey, clapped his back and said that they too supported him.

Harry was genuinely shocked. He had prepared for the worst. He still thought, like he did when he was fifteen, that nobody would believe him and when it slowly became clear that the whole room was on his side, he was humbled by the support. 

The things he kept hidden from the world for fear that everyone would hate him actually connected him to the world and brought him closer to everyone in the company. 

Even Kenneth appeared to be siding with Harry, though that may have had something to do with the crowd of angry patrons crowding around him demanding that Beauchamp be fired immediately. 

Beauchamp wasn’t there. I could see Harry watching the doors and tapping his foot anxiously. 

“He won’t come,” I said, taking him into my arms for the first waltz. “He’s bound to have heard of the article by now. He wouldn’t dare show his face here.” 

I was wrong. Moments later the grand oak doors swung open and Beauchamp entered in his signature shark grey suit, his arms extended. He entered every party as though it were being held in his honor. I felt a pang of the old me. A few weeks ago I would have been the first person in the room to run up and greet him. Now I struggled to see in him what I did then. It was like finding out your childhood hero was actually the monster under your bed. 

At first I thought he might be arrogant enough to think the article wouldn’t touch him. But he was too calm, too pleased with himself. 

He didn’t know.

Unlike the silence that Harry met upon his arrival, Beauchamp was met with whispers and jeers. Not a single person approached him. Even Kenneth seemed too revolted to ask him to leave. 

He stood there waiting for his warm welcome until the smug expression on his face fell into a glare directed right at Harry. 

I had a hand fixed on Harry’s waist. He broke away from me. 

“No!” I said, grabbing him. I didn’t want him anywhere near Beauchamp. Even though he was an adult now he was still very much a child to me. I failed to protect him when he was younger, I couldn’t fail him again. 

Then I remembered what Mags had said to me in the greenhouse and I let him go. 

Slowly, Harry crossed the room, his footsteps soundless on the plush red carpet. 

He was face to face with Beauchamp, who was spitting fire. “What have you done, you stupid animal!” 

Harry pulled out the newspaper from his breast pocket and spoke softly. “Don’t be cross with me, Sir. I know you hate it when we fight.” He kissed Beauchamp on the cheek and pressed the paper into his hand.

Beauchamp’s eyes scanned the headline with horror, reading and re-reading it like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare. He crushed the paper and looked around the room imploringly—at the patrons, the dancers, the administration, all of his friends, old and new. “You don’t actually believe these lies?” 

They turned their backs on him, every last one of them. 

Harry and I had been all wrong about Beauchamp. His power didn’t stem from his family name or his money, his connections or his social standing. His power came from silence. The silence of his victims. Once that silence was broken so was the illusion of his power. He may as well have been standing there naked without a cent to his name. 

That night in Harry’s bed I held him tight, swaddling him with my arms and legs. 

He hadn’t said much over the course of the evening but I knew this must have been one of the hardest nights of his life. “It’s all over,” I murmured into the nape of his neck. “You faced your fears.”

Harry froze. “I’m still afraid. I see him every time I close my eyes. He’s on top of me and I can’t move, I can’t say no, I can’t stop him...”

I waited for him to fall asleep. Then I brushed my fingertips over his eyelids and prayed for him to have sweet dreams. 

We slept for only a few hours before Harry got a call on his cell phone. He sat up sleepily, my arm still draped around him.

I tried to listen to the call but couldn’t make out the words on the other end. Harry’s muscles tensed. He said the name Agnes, which I recognized because it was the name of one of the reporters that interviewed him for the article. 

Harry hung up, leapt out of bed and quickly began to get dressed. 

I rubbed my eyes. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“A boy has come forward in Paris. His mother is pressing charges.”

We were twenty-four hours away from opening night but Harry insisted that he had to see the boy right away. It couldn’t wait. 

We took the next flight out to Paris and arrived at the crack of dawn. Harry hadn’t been back to the city since his trip with Beauchamp. He had a visceral reaction to the place, recoiling at its sights and smells. Even though he didn’t love Paris, Paris loved him and he was famous here despite never having danced for the Paris Opera Ballet. Because of both his and Beauchamp’s popularity in France, the article made a big splash. 

We didn’t know much about the boy. The family wasn’t willing to speak to the press, but they were willing to talk to Harry. 

He lived in a tiny garret in La Courneuve, a poor Parisian burrow with clotheslines hanging between the dilapidated buildings, bars on the windows and doors. 

We climbed up the darkened stairwell to the boy’s apartment. Both the lights and the elevator in the building were broken. 

His mother opened the door. She was very young, dressed in a grey maid’s uniform, about to leave for her job in the wealthy suburb of Neuilly-sur-Seine.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She led us into the apartment, which was rundown and modestly furnished but tidy and warm, with lots of family photos on the walls.

The boy’s name was Léo. He was small with dark shorn hair and a golden complexion. He was sitting on the couch doing his homework and jumped to his socked feet when he saw us. My heart ached. 

Harry asked his mother how old he was. 

“Twelve,” she said. 

Neither she nor the boy spoke English very well but between my broken French and their broken English we were able to piece together the whole story. 

The boy was a student the École de Danse de l’Opéra in Paris. A few months earlier Beauchamp was a guest instructor for a day—a special treat that they had been promised for being so good. After class Beauchamp noticed Léo’s Batman backpack and asked him if he would like to accompany him to the new Batman movie. Léo explained that he was at the school on a scholarship and that his mother couldn’t afford to pay for a movie ticket. Beauchamp said not to worry, that he would pay for the tickets. But on the way there the driver drove right past the cinema to Beauchamp’s apartment. He told the boy that he just needed to pick up a few things, but they never left the apartment that evening and they never went to the cinema. 

When the boy got home at night he was listless and complained of a mysterious pain that he couldn’t articulate to his mother. She knew something was not right. She took him to the hospital, where in the examination room, he explained to the doctors what happened. Léo told them everything except who had done this to him. Even after he had been brutalized, the boy still thought that Beauchamp was someone who should be revered. He was brought to the school as a treat for the students. He was elegant and important, not like Léo who lived in La Courneuve and couldn’t even afford a ticket to the cinema. 

All of that changed when Léo saw Harry’s story on the front page of the newspaper. Harry was Léo’s favorite dancer, his mother explained. He’d never seen him perform but he watched his performances from the Bolshoi online. Harry was what made him want to study dance. When he saw that the same thing that happened to him had happened to his hero, Léo decided to speak out too. He pointed to the newsstand and confessed to his mother that it was Beauchamp who hurt him.

Since the hospital performed a full examination and a rape kit the day it happened, they had all the physical evidence they would need to prosecute. 

Harry took the skinny boy in his arms. Léo’s hazel eyes were full as saucers. He couldn’t believe Harry was in his apartment let alone hugging him.

This was the first time Harry had met another of Beauchamp’s victims. He embraced him like a brother. 

“Thank you, Léo. Thank you for being brave.”

The boy wriggled free then took Harry’s hand and pulled him toward his room. “Come, come, come,” he said.

His mother gestured for us to go ahead. Bewildered, Harry and I followed the boy down the slanted hallway to his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment it was cramped and it looked as though he shared the room with two other siblings. He hopped onto his bed and pointed wildly at the wall. There, amongst his drawings of Batman and Superman were dozens of pictures of Harry dancing. It was exactly like the collage I had of Beauchamp when I was growing up. 

Harry held the boy’s small shoulders. 

Léo looked up at him. “I’m not so good as you,” he said, in his lilting French accent.

Harry leaned down. “That’s okay. I was a terrible dancer when I started at the academy.”

The boy couldn’t believe it. “Really?”

“It’s true,” I interjected. “He was rubbish. I was there.” 

Harry frowned but the boy thought this was hilarious! 

We had to go and catch our flight back to London to prepare for opening night but Harry was reluctant to leave the boy.

“Léo,” he said, looking at the pictures on his wall. “How would you like to see me dance in person?”

His mouth hung open. 

“I’ll pay for you and your mum to come to London and see Swan Lake. Would you like that?” 

Léo hugged Harry’s waist. 

Neither of us had the heart to tell him that it would be Harry’s last performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been looking forward to introducing you to little Léo! I hope you liked him and found his story moving. 
> 
> In case you’re wondering why I had Harry kiss Beauchamp, a kiss in literature can symbolize either love or betrayal. I see this as a Judas kiss. Beauchamp’s boys were like disciples and Harry was the first one to betray him. 
> 
> Only three more chapters left!


	33. Chapter 33

It didn’t matter how many times I performed onstage, I was nervous before every single show. We all were, but we each dealt with it in different ways. Everyone had their own pre-show ritual.

Zayn sat cross-legged on the floor reading. 

Eleanor watched TV and ate candy. 

Gigi blared power ballads and bounced around her dressing room like a boxer. 

I’d never performed professionally with Harry before. I had no idea what his pre-show ritual was. I was curious. 

I played videogames. But first I got in full costume. I wanted to acclimate to the fabric before going out on stage. For the first act I wore white tights and a violet tunic with a crepe-chiffon inset and puffed sleeves. It was embroidered with Swarovski crystals and gold piping that made me sparkle under the stagelight. 

Harry wasn’t in costume yet. He was in plain black tights, pacing the corridor, ordering around the stage crew and terrorizing the corps dancers. 

He stopped dead in his tracks at my door. I was leaning back in my chair with one leg up on the vanity, my hand resting on my thigh. His eyes flashed with interest. “Louis, you look so… Princely.”

Uh oh. I knew where this was going. 

Harry slammed the door behind him. I stood. He picked me up by my waist and threw me against the wall.

“Gently, Harry! I’m not a toy!” 

He pinned my wrists above my head, his wide eyes pouring over my body. He kissed me. 

Well, I figured out what his pre-show ritual was.

His kisses softened. He hooked my arms around his neck and nuzzled my cheek affectionately. “God, you’re pretty.”

I blushed. Harry could be so sweet when he wanted to be. 

He pawed at my tights. “Turn around.”

“I won’t be able to perform!”

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” he said innocently.

I arched an eyebrow. “No, you won’t.” 

We both laughed. 

He fondled the tunic’s gold piping. “Maybe you can bring your costume home tonight?”

“Absolutely not. You’ll wreck it,” I said haughtily, and straightened myself out in the mirror. He was as much of a menace in the bedroom as he was at work. He’d rip it to shreds! “Why aren’t you in costume yet? I want to see your wings.”

Harry designed his own costume, naturally. In every production of Swan Lake that I had ever seen, Von Rothbart’s wings were made of gauzy fabric—light and easy to move in. Harry insisted that his wings be made of real feathers. The costume designer strongly advised against it. She said they would be far too heavy. But no one said no to Harry. It took three seamstresses to stitch the black raven’s feathers into two human-sized wings. They weren’t finished by dress rehearsal, so I hadn’t seen them yet. Nobody had. Only Harry, who had practiced a few times with them privately. 

“We’re not on for forty minutes,” he said watching the clock. “I still have time…”

I knew what this was about. He didn’t want these moments to go by too quickly. Every part of preparing for the show would be his last. The last time he had to get into makeup and costume, the last time he would hear the stage manager say “dancers take your places,” the last time he would feel the spotlight warm his skin as he stepped on stage.

I placed a hand on his naked chest. “You have plenty of time.”

We heard a knock at the door. Gigi and Eleanor entered in their mirroring white and black tutus like two chess pieces. Zayn and Niall followed, carrying a chocolate cake with the word “farewell” in frosted icing. 

“For me?” Harry said.

“We had to do something for your last performance!” Zayn exclaimed. He hopped up onto my vanity, his legs in white tights like mine beneath a velvet burgundy tunic. His hair was slicked back and he was in full makeup, his long lashes ten times longer when he wore mascara. 

“Yes,” said Niall while cutting him a slice. “And we’re throwing you a farewell party at the Lowlander after the show. Food’s rubbish but pints are cheap. Even Kenneth will be there.”

I thought Kenneth was going to drop dead of a heart attack when Harry told him he would only perform in one show of our six-night run. Ticket holders for the other performances were furious and practically murdering each other to snag tickets for opening night. Zayn was Harry’s understudy and would be dancing the part of Von Rothbart for the rest of the show’s run. It was funny because that was exactly what I wanted many months ago before Harry came back to London. Now the thought brought me nothing but sadness. 

Eleanor and Harry were the only ones who had cake. The rest of us couldn’t stomach food right before a performance. 

“I can’t believe your reign of terror is over, Harry.” Gigi smirked, adjusting her white, feathered crown. 

Harry licked the chocolate from the corners of his mouth. 

“Who’s going to torture us now?” Eleanor added wistfully.

Just then the first warning sounded over the PA system. They all shuffled toward the door to go back to their own dressing rooms and put the finishing touches on their hair and makeup.

Harry and I were alone again. He was the only one who wasn’t in costume yet. He looked at the cake crumbs on his plate. 

“You’re still you,” I said. “Even if you’re not a dancer.” 

He smiled weakly. 

I understood that he was losing an essential part of himself. Harry personified dance and was the greatest ambassador for the art form. He didn’t know who he was without his career. But I knew. I loved him long before he became a professional dancer and I would love him for the rest of my life. 

He got up to go back to his dressing room when we heard another soft knock at the door.

Harry opened it. Léo was standing there nervously beside his mother. He was wearing a suit that was at least two sizes too big for him, a hand-me-down, and carrying a bouquet of red roses. 

“For you, Mr. Styles.” The boy bit his lip, struggling for the English expression: “Good luck!” 

Harry took the flowers and thanked the boy like it was the finest gift he’d ever received. 

We gave him a little tour of the dressing room and he wandered around the place in awe. I let him sit at my vanity. He examined his reflection in the mirror, humming to himself and powdering his nose, pretending he was a professional dancer about to go on stage. 

If you didn’t know what had happened to him, Léo seemed like a perfectly happy young boy. But if you looked closely, that wide-eyed wonder would dull and darken into a guarded skepticism. I saw the same look on Harry’s face when he came back from Paris all those years ago, only I didn’t understand what I was looking at back then. They were like a painting whose meaning shifts when viewed from a different vantage point. 

Léo’s mother never took her eyes off him, not even for a second. The boy couldn’t move an inch without her fixing his tie or his hair, fussing over him. 

Harry watched them longingly. He had been estranged from his own mother for years, his secret creating a gulf between them. Now that she knew the truth he was slowly drawing her back into his life again. She would be at the show that night. 

Another warning sounded over the staticky PA system: “Dancers take your places.” Harry needed to get in costume. 

He ruffled Léo’s hair. “You better get to your seat. You don’t want to miss the opening scene with Louis. It’s my favorite!”

I put an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Really? My favorite is our battle in Act Four.” 

“Battle!” Léo took his mother’s hand and skipped out of the dressing room excitedly. 

Harry turned and kissed me. “I’ll see you out there.” 

I winked. “Good luck, Mr. Styles.”

I found swans and courtiers chatting and warming up backstage. I rolled my neck, my shoulders, my ankles. 

The audience was not normally this loud. It was a packed house for Harry’s debut on the London stage. Dancers were buzzing about all the famous names in the crowd but I tuned them out. I was nervous enough without knowing that the bloody queen was out there. 

The lights went down. I heard Niall take his place before the orchestra. The audience clapped for him. Slowly, the music swelled.

The stage manager was speaking into her headset and herding us into position. I stood behind a long row of corps dancers. The first scene was a birthday celebration for Prince Siegfried at the palace. 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry backstage, in costume.

I put a hand over my heart.

He was beautiful. 

His wings were majestic, curving just above his shoulders and dipping down to the ground. The black raven’s feathers expanded when he stretched his arms and folded neatly behind him when his arms were down as his sides. A strip of black makeup was painted over his eyes like a mask, and he wore a sleek black unitard with a tuft of silver feathers on the breast. 

I broke away from the other dancers and ran to him. 

The stage manager was hissing at me to get in position, but I had to speak to Harry one last time before the ballet started. 

“Your wings!” My fingers skimmed the feathers. “You look like a real bird.”

“A flightless bird.”

“No.” I held his face in my hands. “You fly for one more night.”

He furrowed his brow in determination. 

I heard my cue and leapt out onstage. The set was avant garde for a mainstream production. The backdrop was painted in the abstract impressionist style that Harry admired. Instead of traditional set pieces, Harry commissioned sliding panels with intricate latticework that became climbing vines in a courtyard, the foliage in a forest, or palace windows, depending on how they were lit from above.

My first solo went well. It was one of those nights where everything magically fell into place: My technique and Harry’s choreography. Every dancer was on their game and having a good time. The entrance of the pages and the pas de trois all gained cheers from the audience. Corps dancers, including Zayn, danced around me with gold chalices in their hands, happily celebrating Prince Siegfried’s birthday. 

At the end of the first act Siegfried is told that he has to take a wife. Devastated that he can’t marry for love, he decides to go hunting and chases a flock of swans. I picked up my crossbow from the props table backstage and off I went. 

The lighting changed from the bright red and orange of the palace to the cool green and blue of the enchanted forest. 

Gigi’s Odette in the second act was a technical marvel. Instead of dancing the part with vulnerability, she danced it with a quiet strength. She was often criticized by European critics for her musculature, but her body was what gave her movements such power and control. She was a strong partner and we looked good together but we had the romantic chemistry of a brother and his bossy older sister. 

Harry entered to Tchaikovsky’s wicked allegro vivo. 

Our eyes met.

Together we were electric. You couldn’t mistake us for anything other than lovers. We danced and the audience fell away. We weren’t on stage. We were back in our dorm room, two crazy kids, crazy about each other, spinning and leaping, having the time of our lives. 

I had to keep reminding myself that he was my enemy. I was not in love with this evil sorcerer! I was in love with the swan queen Odette! Yet, Von Rothbart looked so handsome as he preened his feathers… I grinned and aimed my crossbow at him. 

Odette intercepted. If Siegfried killed Von Rothbart, the spell that doomed her could never be broken. Nobody knew why Von Rothbart cursed the beautiful maidens, turning them all into swans, but as the folktale went, the ‘swan lake’ was formed from their parents’ tears. 

Harry spotted his mother in the audience. His eyes crinkled at the darkened theatre. 

Act Three was Eleanor’s time to shine. The Black Swan’s pas de deux was one of the most popular in the ballet and Eleanor was a crowd favorite. Unlike Gigi, Eleanor had a more traditional ballerina’s body, but her theatricality was decidedly untraditional. She was devilishly playful in the role, blowing kisses and winking at the audience. While Gigi’s body was hard as ice in my arms, Eleanor’s was liquid. She slipped in and out of my grip like water running through my fingers. 

During the fourth act, after entr'acte and the danse des petit cygnes, Gigi and I, and all of the corps dancers, left the stage so Harry could perform his final solo. 

I held my breath. 

Every dancer in the company had crowded in the wings to watch him. Some were excited, others grieving. Gigi and Eleanor had their arms wrapped around each other. Zayn put a hand on my shoulder. 

This was the end of an era and we were all about to witness history. 

Harry took long effortless strides across the stage, so swift and smooth his feet seemingly hovered above the ground. He moved from cabriolé to saut de basque, his wings fluttering wildly around him. Niall looked up at him from the orchestra, awestruck. As Harry leapt into barrel turn after barrel turn, it didn’t appear as though he were dancing to the music but that the music was moving through him. I didn’t know if my senses were playing tricks on me or if I was witnessing an honest to god miracle. He swept past me, his green eyes triumphant. There was a beat in the music and he composed himself. I knew what was coming and felt a tear slip down my cheek. Harry ran across the stage and launched into a gande jeté. He soared high into the air and extended his large black wings. 

He was flying. 

The entire theatre jumped to their feet and broke into thunderous applause until the ground shook beneath us. 

I wiped my eyes.

Now came the moment I both longed for and dreaded. I joined him onstage for our battle. 

The music intensified. 

Turns were punches and leaps were jabs, faster and sharper than what we’d rehearsed. We locked arms and he scissor-kicked his legs in the air. He was supposed to spot me so I could do the same, but instead he threw me to the ground. 

He was really fighting me. 

The music swelled again and I circled around him, panting. 

I reached out to him but he escaped. I chased him ‘round and ‘round until he was at the edge of the stage, breathless, with nowhere else to turn. 

I didn’t want to do this.

I wanted to rewrite the story. I wanted Von Rothbart to live and fly high forever!

I came up behind him. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He bowed his head. 

I ran my fingers along the soft black feathers, and in one merciless burst of violence, tore the wings off his back.

Léo stood up in the front row. “Non!” he cried.

Harry fell to his knees. 

I held the wings above my head like a trophy.

Harry lay down on the cold hard stage and let his eyes fall shut. 

Von Rothbart was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to include the phrase “flightless bird” somewhere in the story. I couldn’t resist!
> 
> I know I keep saying these chapters will get happier, but I really mean it this time. I swear.
> 
> The absence of Harry’s mother in this fic might seem strange but the story was already so long that I thought a subplot with his mother would bog down the narrative. There are hints of her and mentions of motherhood throughout. The way I see it, the reader fulfills the parental role of worrying about Harry. 
> 
> I based this chapter on the Mariinsky Ballet's version of Swan Lake.


	34. Chapter 34

The curtain fell and Harry was gone. 

Like the sorcerer Von Rothbart he vanished into smoke. 

I knew something was wrong the second he took his final bow. He went down on one knee, hand over heart, and refused to look up at the audience, refused to acknowledge that it was over. 

I didn’t see him backstage. I wandered the dressing rooms as dancers received bouquets of flowers and popped champagne, their sweat and melting stage makeup smearing against my cheek as we kissed and congratulated each other.

Harry’s dressing room was empty but I found his costume neatly folded over the back of his chair.

I stuck my head into the studios. They were all empty.

I could hear everyone making plans to meet up at the Lowlander. 

I got changed into my suit. Could he have gone to the pub ahead of us? 

I signed some programmes in the atrium and shook the hands of a few noted patrons before tearing myself away. 

Harry’s name sailed in the air like an aria. A group of London critics stood in a circle by the bar discussing the ballet. No matter how good the show was, this clique of writers always managed to find one tiny detail to hungrily latch onto and rip to pieces. They were like a pack of velociraptors in suits and evening gowns. Tonight, however, they gushed about every detail and it was no secret that the mastermind behind the ballet was Harry himself. 

On the way to the door I ran into Jeffrey. He was wearing a tux, his shock of blonde hair windswept.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for Harry.”

Jeffrey crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to bother me? Well, it doesn’t. I’m over you, Louis Tomlinson. I have a new boyfriend.” He pointed to a corps dancer wearing an identical tux.

“Jeffrey, I really have to go.”

He tossed his head theatrically. “Good show tonight. Harry was decent, though Winston and I found the performance a bit overwrought, didn’t we Winston?”

“I’m going.”

“Wait!” His bright blue eyes flashed with mischief. “I have gossip.”

Ugh. When did Jeffrey not have gossip? 

“I told you, stop spreading rumors!”

He couldn’t help himself. “Kenneth is being forced out. He’s getting a handsome package, but the board wants him gone by next season.”

I put my hands on my hips. “And who exactly told you this?”

“Only everybody. The board thinks Kenneth mismanaged Maurice, Liam, Beauchamp and the whole Harry situation. They’re appointing someone else next month.” 

His intel didn’t sounded totally off but I wasn’t ready to believe him either. Would they fire Kenneth so soon after Beauchamp was extradited to France? It was bad optics, and who would run the company? 

Harry wasn’t at the Lowlander. 

Niall, Gigi, Zayn and Eleanor got a table at the back of the darkened pub. They waved me over. They were chattering excitedly about Harry’s grand vision and how revolutionary his final solo was, but none of them had seen him since curtain call. He was all anyone could talk about yet nobody was concerned about him. I guess that was what it meant to create great art: he had created something greater than himself. 

I told them I had to go look for Harry and left. 

I was surrounded by people all night and now I was completely alone walking the streets of London with my hands in my pockets. I rounded the corner to our building. It was a clear night for once, the Thames glassy and still. Our flat was empty. Where could he be? I’d moved about half of my stuff to his place, most of it still in boxes. I picked up a framed photo of us on the side table. We were fifteen, one of the few that I’d saved. 

I knew where I could find him. 

I took a taxi across town to the Royal Ballet School. The second I stepped on campus I felt a wave of nostalgia. The place was so different yet exactly the same. Everything looked smaller but that was impossible. No, I had gotten bigger. The noticeboards and lit pathways made the place feel institutional, when I remembered it being a palace, the students its knights and queens. 

Harry was in the courtyard leaning against a stone wall, looking every bit the nobleman in a black high-collared button down with pleated slacks. 

He tapped the glass window to our old studio. “It’s locked,” he said. 

Harry wasn’t wearing his jacket. I took off mine and tried to put it over his shoulders but he brushed me away. 

“What are you doing here?” I said.

He looked away, wounded.

“Are you mad at me?” 

“You took my wings.”

I sighed. 

Harry was not what I would call a rational person. He had his own emotional logic that ran like a clock in a foreign time zone. Once, when we were in school, he didn’t speak to me for a whole week because I was mean to him in a dream. 

“I’m sorry I took your wings.”

He wriggled the latch on the locked window. He was desperate to get inside, like if he could just go back to the place where it all began he could change his destiny. But much like the past, the studio was inaccessible to us. I stood beside him and we both peered inside. It was dark. We could only make out vague shapes like the barre against the west wall. 

Harry pointed. “That’s where he picked me. Beauchamp. That’s where he picked me to go to Paris.” He slumped against the glass defeated by fate.

I put an arm around him. “No, that’s where I picked you! Don’t you remember? That’s where you were standing the very first time I saw you. You were in my spot wearing those ridiculous footed tights and I thought to myself, ‘I’m going to make that boy mine.’”

“You did not think that,” he sniffed.

“Yes, I did! Why do you think I waited for you after class? Why do you think I invited you back to my dorm room?”

“You were just being nice.”

“I’m not that nice.”

Harry turned to hide his smile. 

“You were so curly and cute! Oh my God, I adored you from the very first second I laid eyes on you!”

I was embarrassing him. Harry tried to run away but I grabbed his hands and led him to a bench in the courtyard. 

“You want to know what else? You were a terrible dancer! The worst! And that made me love you even more!”

He laughed and folded his hands in his lap. “So, you’re not disappointed that you won’t be dating a famous dancer anymore?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I didn’t fall in love with a famous dancer. I fell in love with a curly-haired boy who couldn’t do a grand plié.”

Harry linked his arm through mine. “Thank you, Louis.” 

“Let’s go home.” 

In the taxi, we debriefed about the performance. I told him how the critics gushed about his dancing, but above all his daring interpretation of Swan Lake. 

Harry was content with this news though not surprised. He didn’t press me for details. Instead he rested his head on my chest and said, “Tell me again the story of how you picked me.”

I swept the curls off his forehead and told him the story again from the very beginning. I would tell him the story as many times as he needed to hear it. 

Our flat was dim, with only trails of light on the wall from passing cars outside. I took his hand and we went straight upstairs. 

I helped Harry out of his clothes. He was wearing an Italian-made men’s blouse with a zillion buttons, and pleated pants that inexplicably zipped up on the side. I undid the tiny buttons down his chest and then the cuffs, exposing the pale flesh of his wrists. I slid the blouse off his shoulders and kissed his neck. Normally, a gesture like this was enough to make him throw me on the bed and fuck me to within an inch of my life. He was different tonight. He waited patiently for me to continue undressing him. I undid his pants and steadied him as he unhooked them from his ankles. 

He was still waiting. 

I glanced down at his body and slipped his boxerbriefs off his narrow hips. 

Harry turned around slowly. He bowed his head like he did on stage earlier that night. I kissed the smooth white plane of his back where his wings were once fixed. 

He climbed onto the bed naked, on his hands and knees.

He wanted to.

It was time.

I tried to act like I hadn’t been thinking about this moment every second of every day for weeks but it was hopeless. I tore off my shirt, pants and boxers with none of the care I showed Harry’s clothes and threw them aside. I followed him onto the bed like a man possessed. 

I was too excited to touch him. I admired his body, spellbound. He was so perfectly exposed, offering himself to me like a gift. 

He looked over his shoulder helplessly. “Take me.” 

This was how it was with Harry. One of us was the man and the other had to be the monster. 

“I don’t want to be your monster.”

He lowered his head in submission. “Take me.” 

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“I don’t know any other way to be!” 

Gently, I guided him onto his back. “Let me teach you.”

I straddled him, my heavy thighs framing his slimmer ones. My chest pressed against his and I kissed him. Lips lax and wet, he let my tongue fill his mouth. 

He felt my excitement against his thigh and unfurled his legs beneath me. “I’m ready.” 

“I’m not.”

Harry deserved someone who would go slow and care for him and care about his pleasure. 

My gaze fell over his lithe body, broken but strong, the body that brought him so much pain, and so much joy to others. 

The body he sacrificed for me. 

Tearfully, I kissed his cheek. My lips skimmed down his sternum to the tender flesh of his belly. 

He lifted his hands like he didn’t know how they worked in this context. Then he ran his fingers through my hair. 

I nosed his pointy hipbone, my mouth’s proximity to another sensitive part of him made his chest rise and fall quickly. 

I hooked my arms underneath his thighs and drew him toward me. He licked his lips in anticipation. I buried my face in his inner thigh relishing the pillowy softness of his body. I kissed his length and went back to nuzzling his thigh. 

This both delighted and confused him. “Louis!”

I kissed his length again and he placed a hand playfully on my head. I loved teasing him but not tonight. I took all of him into my mouth at once and he threw his arms back in ecstasy. 

“Oh God!”

I felt my own deep desire gnawing at me. 

I released him from my mouth and slid my lips down to his entrance. 

He gasped. “I’m ready.”

I looked up and kissed his thigh. “No, you’re not. You’re still tense.”

“I don’t care if it hurts.”

“I care.”

I placed my lips on his entrance again. He loved it when I did this but he was embarrassed that he loved it, which was impossibly cute. I couldn’t resist. I wanted to do all of the things he secretly loved best. 

I licked and kissed him adoringly until he fell open for me like a flower. 

Kneeling between his legs, I examined him, his cheeks pink, his dark hair splayed on the pillow. 

I hesitated. I didn’t want to be just another person in his life who took pleasure in him. If he didn’t enjoy it I knew he wouldn’t tell me. He would keep it locked inside himself, in his menagerie of painful memories.

Harry sat up. He placed his hands on my hips and guided me toward him. It was then I realized that it wasn’t up to me. It was his decision and if I didn’t respect that than I was no better than all those other men who ignored what he wanted. 

I reached into the nightstand for the lube and began to coat his tiny entrance. As I was about to breach him with my finger to prep him, he stopped me. 

“No, I don’t want your hands. I want… you.”

“I’ll hurt you.” 

“You won’t. I trust you.”

He had more faith in me than I had in myself. Just the thought of entering him untouched made me tremble. 

I laced my fingers through his and pressed his hands onto the mattress. 

Harry eyed my body, his knee bent boyishly, as innocent as he was seductive. 

I pushed myself inside of him and lost whatever was left of my sanity. 

He felt too good. Too tight. Too soft. Too much of everything I’d always wanted. 

His full lips parted. 

“Oh, Harry.”

He was so tight I couldn’t move without hurting him. But I needed to move, I needed more of him. I released his hands and pressed his thighs apart. 

His eyes widened.

“Can I go deeper?” I whispered desperately. 

“Deeper,” he breathed. “I want that.”

Very, very carefully, I eased into him. I wanted to thrust inside of him so badly I was sweating. I knew he would let me do whatever I wanted, but what I wanted most of all was to make him feel good. 

When our bodies were finally flush, my sweaty brow collapsed onto his chest. 

I felt his fingers claw at my back. I looked up. I was afraid I might see panic or chilling blankness. 

I saw desire. 

“Kiss me!” he cried.

My lips caught his. 

I thrust inside him. 

His head rolled back and he sighed like an angel. 

My dark angel. 

I rolled my hips, moving inside him slow and deep. He was overwhelmed and clung to the back of my neck. 

He had tears in his eyes. I couldn’t tell if they were tears of sadness, joy or both. I knew I had to let him feel whatever it was he was feeling, but he needed to know what I was feeling too: love. Like a prayer, I murmured, “I love you, Harry. You mean everything to me. My beautiful Lysander. My precious boy…”

He was a quiet lover, but every soft moan, each tiny cry, shook like thunder inside me.

I was getting close. We were getting close.

I stopped and slid out of him.

“Why are you stopping!” 

I turned him on his side. “I want to hold you when we come.” 

“Oh.” He smiled shyly.

I curled up behind him. He took my hand and held it against his heart. I kissed the back of his head, his dark curls deliciously mussed with sweat. 

I entered him again. He gasped at the change of sensation. 

I could move deeper and more freely in this position and he wanted me to. He lifted his head, lips red as berries, lashes batting heavily against his flushed cheeks. He was everything I imagined he would be and more. I never told Harry my fantasy but it was this. It was Harry giving me that look while I was inside him.

I held him tightly against my chest. We rocked together on the bed, Harry’s soft cries becoming more and more urgent. I slowed down to prolong his pleasure, but it felt too good for him in this position. He loved that I was so deep and he loved being held. He needed release. 

I thrust into him as deeply as I could and he came with a throaty sigh. “Louis!” 

His sweet little sigh was too much for me. I spilled inside of him with total and complete adoration. It was like all of my love for him had burst into a supernova. I was shattered in the most spectacular way. 

It took me several minutes to regain my composure. Shakily, I looked over at Harry. His eyes were closed and he was breathing into the pillow. 

I untangled my body from his and he reached back longingly. He still wouldn’t look at me. He usually strutted around like a peacock after sex. He was different now, softer and unsure of himself. 

Eventually he roused and peered at me over the pillow. “I belong to you now?”

I nodded. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” he said, through a dimpled smile. “It’s exhausting belonging to you.” 

I took in his sore, naked body, his long pale legs crossed coquettishly at the ankle. 

“Oh Harold, you don’t know the meaning of tired. I’ve barely gotten started.” 

He laughed and wrestled me down beside him. I was worried he would return to that dark corner of his heart after we did this but he was glowing. 

“I liked it,” he whispered, even though we were completely alone. “I didn’t think it could feel that way.”

“It can, Harry. It should. You deserve all the pleasure in the world!” 

He curled his long slender fingers around my wrist. “I only want you to pleasure me. I’m yours, remember.”

My chest heaved. I wanted him again. Fuck.

His grip was weak. He blinked lazily at me. He was too tired. I moved to pull the sheet over us but I’d made a mess of him earlier and, sexy as it was, I couldn’t leave him like that.

I went into the blue-tiled bathroom, washed myself quickly and fetched him a damp towel. 

He set the alarm for me. I had a matinee the next day and had to be at the opera house in the morning. Harry didn’t have anywhere to be. This was the first day of the rest of his life.

He thumbed the scar on his knee. “Nijinsky went mad when he stopped dancing. Do you think I’ll go mad?”

“Good God, Harry, seven years as a dancer and you still don’t know a thing about Nijinsky! He didn’t go mad because he stopped dancing. He went mad because he split from his lover Sergei Diaghilev. I’ll never let you leave me, so you have nothing to worry about.”

He beamed. 

Harry cleaned himself up with the towel and tossed it aside. I pulled the sheet over him so that it pooled around his waist. I stayed up. I always waited for him to fall asleep first because I knew he didn’t like to be alone with his thoughts. 

“Tell me again,” he yawned. “Tell me the story of how you picked me.”

I stroked his hair and spoke softly. “I was late to class, I walked through the studio door and there you were, standing in my spot in your silly footed tights with your dark curls and your green eyes, and I said to myself, ‘I’m going to make that boy mine…’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left!!!!!!!!! I'll post it next Friday x


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place roughly two months after the previous chapter.

I was alone in our flat. Harry was out running errands. I wanted to go with him but mysteriously he said that he preferred to go by himself. 

I knew he would be dropping by his publisher’s office to pick up the page proofs of his book. Surely I could have come along. We didn’t get many days off, especially Harry with his new position at the company. I was hoping we would spend the whole afternoon together. Instead, I tidied up our flat and got a head start on dinner.

At half past six I heard his key in the door. 

He walked in and I knew immediately why he left me at home.

“Your hair.”

He smiled. “Do you like it?”

His hair was cut short above his ears, buzzed in the back and wavy on top. His curls were gone.

“Your curls.”

Harry dropped his keys on the kitchen island and stood across from me. “Are you crying?”

“No!” I was. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d throw a fit.”

“I’m not throwing a fit!” I yelled. “I just wasn’t prepared!” 

“I thought it would be more appropriate for work. I want to be taken seriously.” He sat down on the couch. “Come here, touch it.”

I approached him warily, like he was a new animal. I stood between his knees and placed my hands on his head. 

He glanced up at me. “Well?”

“Okay, you look handsome.”

Harry dug into his briefcase and plunked his manuscript down on the coffee table. His book on Swan Lake was being published by Cambridge University Press, an academic publisher. He had a lot of interest from trade publishers but they all wanted him to write a memoir, which he refused to do. 

I thought a memoir was a great idea. 

“You should consider doing the memoir as your next book.”

He flipped past the cover mockup to the loose-leaf pages of the manuscript. 

“What would I even write about? The whole world already knows my deepest darkest secrets.”

“You could write about me! About how I’m the love of your life!”

“Maybe you should write a book.”

I pondered this. It wasn’t a bad idea… 

Much like Harry’s speeches about Tchaikovsky, his book was five hundred pages long. As his dutiful boyfriend I had to read the whole manuscript even though I only understood about ten percent of it. That didn’t stop me from bragging to anyone who would listen about my boyfriend the brilliant author! 

Harry was as meticulous about the publication of his book as he was the ballets he staged. He was involved in every aspect of the process from cover design and layout, down to the typography, paper stock and binding. 

These were the final page proofs that would go into production. Harry wanted to take one last look to make sure not a single comma was out of place. 

Carefully, I flipped to the dedication page:

_For Hans Faust_

_Marcus Aurelius once said “The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing”_

_I will wrestle for both of us_

The thesis of Harry’s book was centered on the idea that Tchaikovsky’s personal letters provided the greatest insight into the libretto. The letters, which Harry translated from Russian, were about Tchaikovsky’s isolation and loneliness while composing. In many ways the book itself was a letter to Hans.

Harry’s fingertips lingered on Hans’ name. “Do you think you can miss someone you’ve never met?”

“I think you can miss the feeling you had knowing that they were out there.”

“I felt like he understood me.”

This was something of a sore spot for us. No matter how close Harry and I became, I could never truly understand what he’d been through.

“You have Léo. Have you spoken to him since he started at RBS?” 

After Beauchamp’s arrest in France, Léo was ostracized at the academy in Paris. Harry couldn’t bear the thought of the boy suffering any more than he already had and offered to pay his tuition, room and board to study dance in London. Léo’s mother agreed. 

Harry pulled out his phone. “Yes, we’re supposed to arrange a day to meet but he’s having too much fun with his new mates. His English is quite good now. He already has a girlfriend!” 

“Cheeky devil.”

The sun was beginning to set, sinking down behind Parliament like a drip of paint. We had the whole evening ahead of us but it was back to work first thing in the morning. 

“Do you really like my hair?” Harry asked, his arm stretched out behind me on the couch. 

I straddled his lap and went in for a closer look. It defined his jawline and made his face appear broader, more masculine and mature. “It’s very…” I searched for the right word. “Conservative.”

He laughed. “Madame Lesavauge would be so proud!” 

“She was always chasing you around with those bloody scissors!” 

I was about to climb off his lap when Harry seized me by the waist. “Stay.” 

He slipped his warm hands beneath my t-shirt and pulled it off over my head. Then he untied the drawstring on my joggers. Harry didn’t believe in foreplay. His idea of seduction was to say, “I want you,” or pounce on me the second I stepped out of the shower. Simple but effective. 

He kissed my naked shoulder and nudged me with his nose to turn over. I got on my knees, the heels of my hands sinking into the couch cushions. He slid down my joggers and boxers and ran his fingers over my flesh, giving me goosebumps. I turned my head to look at him. This new haircut was growing on me. 

He began to quickly undo his own pants and I smiled to myself mischievously. When he wasn’t looking I flipped around and pinned him on his back.

“Louis!” His voice was murderous. I tightened my grip on his wrists, pressing them into the cushions. 

“You can only have me if you can get free.”

He thrashed wildly beneath my weight. He tried but he couldn’t do it. Out of breath he said, “This isn’t a fair fight. You dance all day. I eat chocolate and watch you.” 

“So you admit it. I’m stronger.”

“I didn’t say that!” 

He strained against my grip, his muscles growing weaker and weaker with each effort until he finally conceded with a pout. 

“You tried, sweetheart,” I said smugly. 

He looked up at me with despair. 

Then his eyes fell to my lips. 

I kissed him. He submitted to me, his full lips hot and wet. I deepened my kiss and he flushed, parting his long legs. I nestled between his thighs and he purred with approval. “Yes.” 

I rubbed my length against him and he arched his back. 

“You want it so badly, don’t you?” I whispered. 

He bit his bottom lip and nodded. 

I released his hands to pull down his boxers, when suddenly he flipped me onto the floor. My back hit the waxed hardwood with a loud smack.

“Oi! That’s cheating!”

Harry yanked my joggers and boxers off my ankles and pried my legs apart. 

“You said I had to get free. You didn’t say how.”

He was incorrigible! The minx!

Harry buried his head between my thighs and gave my rim a rough lick. I yelped. Oh Lord, our tussle had only reenergized him! 

Then Harry stopped and shut his eyes. “Gently,” he reminded himself. “Be gentle.” 

I touched his cheek. “That’s right, love.”

He placed his mouth on me again, kissing and licking tenderly until I was supple and wet. 

“Harry,” I moaned, petting his short hair.

“Can I have you now?” he asked sweetly. 

“Yes,” I said, though I would have given his absolutely anything he asked for. 

Gently, he pressed himself inside me.

***

We walked to work the next morning like we did every morning. Exiting the entrance to our building, I glanced at the buzzer. There was no longer a blank rectangle next to Harry’s unit number. He didn’t like the idea of using our full names but he let me get a tiny brass plaque made with our initials: H.S. & L.T. It looked quite elegant.

We held hands and picked up coffee on the way to work. We made an interesting pair: Harry in his austere black suit, me in sweats with a gym bag slung across my chest.

When we got to the opera house we found Liam in the corridor. He was stapling an announcement to the noticeboard, his cane leaning against the wall beside him. 

“You two are early!” he said brightly. 

“Blame Harry,” I moaned. “I could have slept for three more hours.”

His warm brown eyes shone at the pair of us.

After Kenneth was let go, the board promptly offered Harry the position of Artistic Director. He turned it down. He didn’t want to be stuck in an office all day. He hated administrative work. He wanted to work directly with the dancers. He told the board he would only stay on as Resident Choreographer if they gave the position of Artistic Director to Liam. They agreed. They already knew Liam was more than competent and Harry’s name, even if he wasn’t director, was a feather in the cap of the company.

Harry linked an arm through Liam’s. “Lunch today?”

“You’re buying.”

Harry and Liam had lunch together at least twice a week in Liam’s office. Harry sat across from him, one leg casually crossed over the other as they volleyed ideas back and forth, Harry’s ideas wild and avant garde, Liam’s more traditional. Harry tried his very best to compromise and Liam mostly tried not to have a coronary. 

“I trust you’ll both be at the patrons’ dinner on Friday?” Liam asked, or more like ordered.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I quipped. “I’m making you both dance with me.”

Liam raised his eyebrows at Harry. “Between your bad knee and my bad ankle we’ll be the belles of the ball.” 

“Indeed.”

Harry and I headed over to Studio A. By chance we ran into Niall who was on his way to the auditorium with a stack of sheet music under his arm. 

He did an about face and walked in the opposite direction. 

“Hello, Horan. So glad I caught you,” said Harry, backing him into the wall.

Niall pushed his black glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t catch me. I need to get this sheet music to my string section.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you! You know, now that I’ve finished my book on Swan Lake I’ve begun to do some light research into the score for Giselle. Very interesting history. Very interesting.”

“Isn’t it though?” said Niall, inching away from him. 

Harry slammed a hand against the wall, pinning Niall like a bug to a cork board. “I have a few ideas about tempo I’d like to run past you.”

“No.”

“You’ll love it, I promise.” He straightened Niall’s tie and took a folder of sheet music from his hands. “I’ll need a copy of this. Cheers mate.”

“Cheers,” Niall grumbled. 

In the studio were Zayn and Gigi. Like Harry, Gigi preferred to get to work early, and like me, Zayn was half asleep. I lay down beside him, took one of his earbuds and together we shut our eyes and listened to music while Harry guided Gigi’s barre exercises. 

Gigi was dancing the title role of Giselle and I was dancing the male lead, Albrecht. Zayn was Hilarion and Eleanor Myrtha, Queen of the evil spirits.

Eleanor dragged herself into the studio barefoot, her pointe shoes tied together and dangling over one shoulder. Her day off was not kind to her, or perhaps too kind. She had bags under her eyes and her hair was in a loose braid, dark strands hanging messily in her face. The exact opposite of Gigi’s prim bun.

“The queen of the underworld has arrived!” she declared, taking a dramatic bow. 

“Well, you certainly look dead.” 

She kicked me. 

Next, soloists and corps dancers filed into the studio. Everyone was there and on time, too terrified of Harry to dare be late. 

I unzipped my hoodie and pulled off my joggers. I was wearing my dove grey tights. I reckoned Harry could use some eye candy. 

Harry stood at the front of the studio with his hands behind his back. We all scurried to take our places at the barre. Warm-ups were supposed to be led by the company’s master tutor, but Harry, controlling as he was, preferred to oversee our daily exercises himself. 

He clapped his hands. He had an announcement to make before we got started. “I’m making a change to casting.” Harry pointed to the very back of the studio and beckoned one of the corps dancers. It was Jeffrey. 

Jeffrey froze and turned to one of his mates, “Jesus fucking Christ, not again!”

Head down, cheeks red with humiliation, he shuffled to the front of the studio.

Harry put a hand on his shoulder. “Tom’s fallen ill. I’m giving you the harvest festival solo in Act One.”

Jeffrey lifted his head. “Me? A solo? Really? Oh my God. I can’t believe it. This is such an honor. I’ve always been a huge admirer of your work, Mr. Styles—”

Harry interrupted him. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“Yes, Sir.” Jeffrey saluted him and chasséd back to the barre. 

Later that morning during a brief break I whispered to Harry, “I thought you hated Jeffrey’s dancing?” 

He looked up from his notes. “He’s improved.” 

“Improved since I stopped dating him.”

“A coincidence.” He clicked his pen. 

I grinned.

Harry worked us long and hard, with particular attention to me and Gigi. When he took the position of Resident Choreographer I naively thought he would give me special treatment. It was just the opposite. He was brutal in his nitpicking, making me repeat the same variation over and over. He actually delighted in making me tremble and sweat before him. 

“Let’s try that again!” 

Gigi and I had a similar approach to dance, which was to place technique above all else. For Harry, flawless technique was the bare minimum of what a dancer should aspire to. Theatricality was paramount. We had to embody the character. Eleanor had a natural flare for this, which annoyed Gigi to no end. 

“Do you know who I am?” Gigi spat. “My dancing is perfect, Styles!”

Harry crossed his arms. “You’re dancing is only perfect when you make me forget that you’re you.” 

When rehearsal was over Harry dismissed everyone in the studio but me. We were supposed to work on my solo in Act Two. I was surprised then when he also dismissed the ballet pianist. 

“Leave us.”

I knew what he was up to. Sly dog. 

Slowly, I began to roll down my tights. 

Harry laughed. “No, Louis, I really do want to rehearse your solo. But I’m going to be quite tough on you, so I thought it best we be alone.” 

I pulled up my tights and frowned.

He sat on a foldout chair with his back against the mirror, holding his yellow legal pad and red pen. 

He thought he had me pegged. What he didn’t know was that secretly I had been taking acting classes, working on my solo behind his back to surprise him. 

“You’re going to be very impressed, Harry. I’m warning you.”

Harry leaned forward and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Show me.”

Emotionally, my solo in the scene was difficult. In the dark forest where they are buried, the evil ghosts, led by Myrtha, force any man who crosses their path between midnight and dawn to dance until his death. Hilarion crosses their path first. He is forced to dance by the ghosts and dies a grizzly death. Then the ghosts turn on my character, Albrecht, sentencing him to death as well. 

I had to make the most joyous act in the world—dance—look like torture. 

I focused on the physical torment at first, but my acting teacher made me see that the emotional torment in the scene was much greater. The ghosts were taunting me, laughing at me, taking pleasure in my pain. 

I danced. 

I felt the humiliation, the anguish, the fear, crawl over my flesh. My movements sprung not from my body but from this pain. I personified suffering from the tips of my fingers to the fine lines of my face. 

When I finished the solo I looked up at Harry, confident that he would be impressed. 

His face was in his hands and his shoulders shook. 

He was weeping. 

I ran over to him and dropped to my knees. “Harry, Harry, don’t cry! It’s just a story!”

“No, it’s not.” 

A story was never just a story to Harry. He was forever trying to escape that dark forest. 

“You’re right, it’s not just a story.” I took his hands in mine and kissed them. “Albrecht lives.” 

Harry’s tears stilled. 

“He dances until dawn and walks away from the ghosts. Into the light.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn’t clear, I wanted the Albrecht solo at the end of this chapter to echo events in chapter 16 (the Kiev chapter, where Harry is forced to dance for Beauchamp and his friends), and the character of Hilarion to echo Hans and his death. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this story. We’ve had our ups (Larry sex), we’ve had are downs (every Beauchamp scene and that time H died for 30 seconds), but you stuck with it. I worked hard on this project but it was a labor of love and I’m so happy I was able to reach such amazing, generous readers!!!!
> 
> I'm planning to post some bonus chapters over on Wattpad in the near future. If you're interested, please follow me @AudreyHornesHeart
> 
> Thank you again x


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